The Games We Play
by Perfume
Summary: A thriller based on the stage-show, Phantom of the Opera. What happens when you must join forces with someone you fear to protect the ones that you love? That is what Raoul and Christine must do... R/C PAIRING!
1. Chapter 1

**Title:** _The Games We Play_

**Summary:** A thriller that takes place five years after the events from the **stage show** Phantom of the Opera.

**Author's Note:** This is a R/C story, and I strongly suggest that if you don't care for R/C and want me to write a E/C story, you need to know that I do not write E/C stories. So kindly close this story and go see to the other +1,000 stories on here that are E/C. I'm writing this for the R/C fans, and those who like a well adapted Erik. And when I mean well adapted, I mean an Erik who has admitted defeat, and is more of a father figure than a rebutted lover. (Not saying that in the beginning he feels that way, but in time he shall.)

I'd also like to add that even though this story is Webber influenced, it does grab one major element from Leroux. It's small, but it plays a HUGE role in this story. (It was one of those comments made but really never embellished on.) There are other little Leroux homages in this story as well, but mainly Webber - Original Cast Webber. If you want to think of what my characters look like, think: Raoul - Steve Barton, Christine - Rebecca Caine, and Erik - Anthony Warlow. It's a combination of the best casts, I think.

This story is quite unique because I think it has not done before. And if you're willing to stick around through it, then by all means, keep reviewing. I have the second chapter completed, and the more reviews I get, the faster this story will be updated.

I have also decided, as of April, 4th, 2011, to go through each chapter of this story and update it. I do re-read over this story from time to time to see what I can improve on. I'm never really satisfied with the way each chapter comes out, but the plot I am satisfied with. So there will be no changes with that!

Thanks and happy reading!

* * *

"_Oh, Christine, you look enchanting!"_

Christine de Chagny marveled at her new evening gown in the mirror. She raised her hands to her waist, and then turned side to side. For how pale she was, she was thrilled that such a dress complemented her so well. The dress had a low collar, a tight bodice, and a gathered green and black skirt with a bustle.

She looked to Annaliese, who was completely satisfied—thrilled at the sight. "It's beautiful! Where on earth did Raoul order this from?" Christine asked.

"London, Christine. He had it specially tailored. Though, where he could have gotten your measurements, I don't know…" Annaliese finished with a sly wink.

Christine went to Annaliese, taking her hands in hers, and kissing her lightly on the cheek. "It's beautiful. Thank you for assisting him." She moved away from Annaliese and to the vanity. Sitting down on the small poof chair, she applied the rouge and lip stick. Annaliese hurried to Christine, making sure her hair was in its proper place.

"I can hardly believe it, Annaliese. Raoul and I have been married for five years. Five years!" Christine smoothed the rouge gently onto her skin with both hands. "Tonight, he has a surprise for me."

"I know what it is, but I shall not tell!" Annaliese finished with Christine's hair. Christine turned around and gazed up at the girl who stood beside her.

To her, Annaliese was a friend. When she and Raoul had moved out to their château in the country, Raoul had hired new help. They found Annaliese, looking for work. Raoul was instantly taken aback by her friendliness, charm, and manners. Christine had also sensed that Raoul had hired Annaliese because of how close in age they were. Christine treated Annaliese as the sister she never had, and she was sure that Annaliese did the same.

"Well, Christine, ready?" She asked, holding out her hand. Christine accepted it and gave one last look at her reflection in the mirror. Yes, she was ready to go.

Raoul de Chagny stood in the parlor of the spacious château, waiting for his wife. It was their five year anniversary, and he had decided to surprise her with something special. Something that he was sure they would both enjoy.

In his hands were two tickets that were wrapped in a crème envelope, bearing his title. He made sure to hide them behind his top hat and gloves, not knowing when Christine would descend down the curved staircase.

"Raoul!" He heard her cry from above, and turning his blue eyes to the top of the stairs, he smiled. There stood Christine in the very gown that he (with help from Annaliese) picked out. She picked up her skirts and hurried down the stairs, her eyes trained on her beloved.

"Christine," he murmured as she came to him, throwing her arms around him and embracing him tightly. He smiled, wrapping his arms around her as well. He bent his head and pressed a quick kiss against her neck to not spoil her makeup. "You look beautiful, dearest."

"I heard that you had some help," she said, looking over to Annaliese who had reached the main floor alongside her. Raoul grinned, and nodded.

"I told Annaliese that I wanted to purchase you something special, and she said a new dress. It took us ever so long to decide the color, but I was glad we decided on green." He smiled at Annaliese who nodded and returned the smile.

Annaliese went to Christine's wrap and Raoul's coat. Christine smiled at Annaliese for a while longer, and then looked to Raoul with concern. "Did you check on Cecilia?"

Within the years, Raoul and Christine were blessed with a child: a girl. Cecilia was the name that both Christine and Raoul had decided upon. It was beautiful, and it suited her perfectly. And, for the child being five, she was certainly a gorgeous little girl.

"She is fine," he said, "sleeping…" He brushed a strand of her hair from her face. "And Annaliese knows where we are going, if anything goes wrong, she will send one of our servants to check in with us."

Christine smiled and kissed her finger and placed it gently on his lips. Annaliese returned with their things, helping Christine into her wrap. And when done, Annaliese took Raoul's hat and gloves (and the tickets that were beneath the hat carefully) and held out his coat. When done slipping it on, she handed his items back to him.

"As I said, Annaliese will call us if anything is wrong," he said, and with a nod, he waited as Christine slipped on her gloves. And holding out his arm, Christine took it instantly.

"Au Revior, Christine! Raoul!" Annaliese said, waving a small goodbye. And she went to the door, locking it soundly.

She hoped that it would be a glorious night for the couple. And the young girl ascended the staircase to the sleeping child.

* * *

"So," Raoul said, as they were making their way into the city, "do you wish to know where our evening shall be held?" He entwined his hand within Christine's gloved one, raising it to his lips.

Christine nodded, giggling softly, enjoying how excited Raoul was. "Yes. Please, tell me!"

He slowly withdrew the envelope and tapped a gloved finger against it. And then, he held it out to Christine. She took it in her hands, undoing the seal. She looked up at Raoul quizzically, withdrawing the tickets.

"Tickets, Raoul?" She asked. There was a slight fear seeping into her eyes. Raoul took notice of this, and he instantly pointed to the name on the ticket.

"Dearest, do not fret. Look, see, a Piano Concerto of Victor Lerik. Is that all right?" He asked in all honesty.

Christine lapsed into a silent reverie. Raoul watched her press deep into the cushioned lining of the carriage. This was something he was worried about – Christine and the past. Their past…

Christine was once a chorus girl of the Opera Garnier. Overshadowed by the diva, La Carlotta, she and the rest of the chorus were nothing but empty backdrop to that egotistical woman. But, little did Christine know, someone cared more about the extras, and Christine's future.

He was known only as the Opera Ghost. He appeared long before she had arrived at the theatre, and was known for tormenting the managers. It was common knowledge among those training or taking up work in the Palais Garnier that it was occupied by someone else that kept to the shadows. Everything was his domain. Every person was his puppet…

But to Christine, he was her Angel of Music. Playing off the dreams of her deceased father, and what he had promised her, he took pity on her. He told her the world could be hers if she would believe in him, and she believed. She was a Christian girl, brought up to believe in Angels and Devils. So, who was to say the voice she heard from the confines of her room was not what it claimed to be? The voice was heavenly, and spoke to her in a manner only a priest would speak to a child of God.

But he was a demon, and there was a reason he remained as a 'ghost'. Those who had seen the face of the Phantom had either met with an untimely demise, or lived to serve at his mercy. There were also those who caught fleeting glances – as if to spread rumors. They reported that he had the face of death, and that any who looked into his eyes were greeted with the flames of hell.

Not only did he have this to accredit to his name, he was a magician, a genius, and a composer. These three things allowed him to be what anybody thought of him to be. And, to Christine, he wanted to be her Angel of Music. … Though, she had something he wanted in return.

Raoul's patronage allowed him to attend the Opera free of cost. And there, one night, the announcement of a young chorus girl taking over for the ill diva fell to Raoul's attention. Christine Daaé was to play the leading role! He had thought back to his childhood, remembering the young Scandinavian girl his aunt and he stayed with. Her name was Christine Daaé as well. And she sang like an Angel… If it was her, he was sure fate had brought them together again.

But, The Phantom had plans for Christine… and unfortunately, they did not include Raoul. And when Raoul had sought her out that night, recalling their childhood memories, and to ask her to dinner, he had taken Christine to his world below – his hell.

Oh, poor Christine!

And as Raoul looked upon his bride, he knew this – and more – was flashing through her thoughts. He turned her face to his, looking deeply into her eyes.

"Just say the words, Christine. If you're not ready yet, then tell me. I just assumed it was time to try…"

"I understand," she murmured, "and I have thought about it. After everything, I think it is time. I want to go, this was a wonderful gift. Thank you." She pressed a kiss to his lips, not caring if the makeup smudged.

Raoul apparently did not care either…

* * *

The Theatre du Palais Royale was a beautiful theatre. Solo pieces, concertos, and some of the most famous composers in town performed here. Raoul had gone to the place only once when his family wanted to become patrons of the theatre. But they had decided upon the Palais Garnier.

Raoul had ordered Box 17, which was the first tier, in the middle. It would have a perfect view of the stage, crisp and clear sound, and he and Christine could take in the majestic surroundings. Ascending the stairs, Raoul eyed the people around them. Most of them had no idea who they were, he assumed. Though he swore he got a few whispers or pointed stares. And his Christine was oblivious to it all, smiling and taking in the surroundings as if she was a child seeing spring.

Approaching the box, they met with their box keeper. Raoul proudly displayed the tickets, and the box keeper took them into his hand. Beckoning them down the curved hall, he came to a box.

"_Madame, Monsieur,"_ the box keeper said, gesturing his hand to an open box, _"this is your box."_

The box keeper moved aside the curtain, allowing Raoul and Christine to peer inside their box for the night. True, it was not the Opera Garnier, and it could not compare, but it had its own architectural beauty. Christine was taken aback by it as Raoul allowed her in first.

"Please," Raoul said softly, "a footstool for my wife?"

"Of course, Monsieur," the box keeper – who was a young boy – said instantly. Raoul pressed a franc or two into his hand, smiling. The boy nodded and hurried off to fetch a footstool. Raoul moved into the box, taking a look around and at the crowd of people who were taking their seats.

"It seems that this Victor is well liked, Paris is raving about him." He took a seat in one of the padded seats next to Christine. She was reading through the small programe.

"Indeed," Christine answered, engrossed with the names of the pieces the gentleman was to play for the night. "And, his pieces, they sound vastly intriguing." She looked up to Raoul. "This was a wonderful gift."

Raoul smiled, brushing her cheek with his gloved hand. The lights were beginning to dim, and the box keeper returned with a footstool. He placed it at Christine's feet, and she instantly thanked him. Raoul offered his thanks as well, and the box keeper hurried from the boxes, shutting the drapes. The workers extinguishing the lights finished, and moved quickly from the auditorium.

There was no sound in the audience as the curtains opened, leaving only a piano standing alone onstage. And from the left, a man emerged.

Christine lifted her opera glasses, staring down at the man who moved gracefully across the stage.

He seemed not to care of the audience, only of the piano standing in front of him. And when reaching the bench, he reached down and caressed the keys. He sat, flipping his coattails out, and delicately placed his fingers upon the keys. And soon, his concerto began.

He never did falter, nor did he ever look up to glance at the audience. It only appeared that he was using the piano as an outlet, an instrument of fine beauty and magnificence to his work. His head moved in time with his music. Once piece flew into the next…

The couple was in awe as well as the rest of the audience. The music that this man gave birth to at the piano was beautiful, haunting, and twisting. It lured each of them in with open ears, and all they could do was stare in silence.

Raoul had never heard anything as beautiful as when he had heard Christine sing. Paris was right, this man deserved all the praise he was being given. He turned to Christine, and he found himself quite shocked.

She was trembling, her hands shaking the opera glasses. Raoul reached over, taking the glasses from her hands.

"Christine," he asked, searching for a sign, "are you well?"

"Raoul," she murmured, turning to him. He could see tears welling from her eyes. He brushed them away, and she turned from his hand. "I have never heard anything like this… since…"

She did not have to finish. He knew what she was going to say. But he could not help thinking if it was good or bad. He brought his hand to his lips, turning his eyes back to the stage and to the man.

Christine kept to her silence, watching the man perform. She raised the glasses back, and looked to the face of the man. He was older than her, a good twenty years. Though, as old as he was, he was still quite handsome. His hair was pushed back elegantly from his face, and did not stir as he moved. His face was pale in the light, but his lips were red and full. He dressed casually, elegantly, so he was certainly not a peasant by any means.

And, after what seemed like hours, the last piece finished. A thunderous applause broke through the audience. People stood, including the people in the boxes next to them. Raoul stood as well, imploring the composer for an encore.

The composer had slid elegantly from his seat, and did something quite unexpected. He took his work from the piano, made a stiff bow, and exited the stage amidst the applause. Another man took to the stage.

"Ladies and gentlemen, Victor has informed me he would be in the lounge. If you would like to meet the composer, please, exit to the lounge. I thank you all for your generous patronage and presence tonight, and hope that you will return to the Palais." He bowed and moved from the stage.

Christine shakily stood next to Raoul. She looked up to Raoul, who was looking down at her with a slight hesitation.

"Christine," he murmured, "are you all right? My dear, I am beginning to worry."

"I think I need to use the washroom, Raoul," she said, "Can you please escort me? Then we can return home…" She was dazed, confused, and needed to cool her face with water to wake her from her reverie.

"Of course," he said, taking her arm gently and tucking it within his own. "Of course…"

* * *

Raoul waited patiently for his wife to return from the washroom, or the ladies parlor. To his right, people were gathering in the lounge to meet the man of the hour. Raoul held back his curiosity to face this man, to meet him… He wanted to know what disturbed his dear Christine so. It was if she had seen a ghost.

A thought had come into his mind, and he was sure it was the same one that Christine was experiencing. And he was also sure that she had not let it rest. That the man onstage was indeed her Angel of Music: The Phantom of the Opera.

But it could not be! This man was quite old, well nourished, and … he was not disfigured. He was a normal man, like everyone else. The fact that he possessed the same talent that this so called Angel had was not unheard of. There were people being born every day, in some part of the world, with talent like any other. Of course, he was discovered only a year ago (so he was told), he was quite sure that this man was not Him.

"Ah, the Viscount de Chagny?"

The voice took him off guard, and he turned his head to see an elder couple. The man was in his sixties, his wife a slight bit younger than him. They bowed to the Viscount, and Raoul returned the gesture.

"Monsieur," he said with a nod, and then he reached out and kissed the hand of the wife. She chuckled. He stared at the face of the gentleman harder. He knew this man. And of course, it dawned on him. This was the owner of the Palais Royale! Of course, it had been five years. But Raoul never forgot a face.

"How did you enjoy the performance? That Victor, he is quite amazing, no?"

"Indeed," Raoul said, gazing off towards the crowd, "the audience does love him. As do my wife and I. She was moved to tears!"

"You are married? Ah… yes, I remember now. The little diva, correct?"

Raoul fumed at this remark, but nodded. "Yes, star of the Opera Garnier five years ago. Christine Daaé, my wife."

The wife of the gentleman gave her husband a pointed look. The older gentleman turned his head to his wife, taking notice of it. He cleared his throat, signaling the change of subject.

"Well, I would be honored if I could meet your wife," he said simply.

"I am sorry Monsieur, but she is not available at this moment. Though, I am sure we will meet again, no?" And with a bow from the couple, Raoul stalked off to find his wife. If it weren't for their gazes burning into his back, he would have clenched his fists.

Christine's face was pale as she looked at herself in the mirror. She took the soft cloth, wiping it daintily upon her forehead.

The music… it had done this to her. It was so familiar, so rich and powerful that only one person could be its maker. And as much as she hoped it would not be, she was sure it was. The Opera Ghost had returned.

Memories flickered before her brown eyes like water. Sometimes, she still had dreams about it. But she did not want to tell Raoul, for she knew that this would not only anger him, but bring him to dote upon her in a way she did not want him to. She wanted to get through this herself.

_"No more of your pity, Christine. You have passed that point. We both have passed that point long ago…"_ _His voice smoothly washed over her frightened form, seeping into her skin. She wrapped her arms around the white silk of the wedding gown she now wore. "This is your reality,"_ _she felt his hands place the veil upon the top of her head. "This is your eternity – a husband, with a face of death."_ _He turned her harshly around, causing her arms to flop to her sides, and her eyes to stare into the face of her Angel._

_She forced her eyes to take in his face as a whole, to picture it as if it were beautiful. But she could not. All she saw was death, staring into her eyes, making her cower before him. His yellow skin, wrinkled, seeping into his skull. His hair was sparse, for she had ripped his wig off earlier upon the stage. And his lips, white and brittle, not soft and full like any other lips. _

_"My mother could not look upon my face as you do now. She would turn from me. And then, she threw to me something I would never forget Christine. A mask, one which she had worn at countless masquerades! How do you think I felt Christine, to wear something that allowed my mother's face to be hidden? Wasn't that cruel irony – my mother's mask, used to hide her beautiful face, to hide the face of a monster?"_

_She could only whimper as he shook her harder, growling at her unspoken words. He then touched her veil, noticing it had shifted out of place. He wanted her to be perfect, for she was his perfect bride. _

_"So you see, Christine, masks were all I knew. I want to know flesh, I want to know…" his hands drifted down from the netting of veil to her cheeks. "I want a face of beauty, and I want to look upon your face. Each mirror, it would hold the image of me and my bride, my Christine. Giving me a face that would look upon me in love! Would that not be fitting?"_

_She felt the tears run down her cheeks now, and they drifted over his fingertips. He quickly shook his hands free of her face. He marched with determination to the table, picking up the bouquet of fake flowers. He picked up her hands, thrusting the flowers into them. She held them numbly, surely believing they would fall from her hands. He turned from her, looking out to the black, inky lake hidden behind the large gate. _

_What was giving her more fear: the face or the man? The man was indeed more terrifying than the face. A face was meant to only be looked upon, to give character. But the character did not come from his face. It came from within._

_"Your face," she whispered brokenly through the silence, "holds not the horror you wish for me to see. It's in your soul, Erik. Your soul is what makes you who you are. You are distorted from within!"_

_He turned to her, not believing the words she had spoken. His eyes, dark, and like holes seemed to brighten, to hold something she had not ever seen before. Was it fear? _

Voices entered the ladies parlor, allowing Christine to break from her memories. The voices belonged to two younger women, dressed in middle class clothes.

"Could you believe it? I thought she surely left the province!"

"Indeed, what was she doing here? Did she not know she was the talk of everyone tonight?"

Christine wanted to leave, but something in her heart told her to stay. For she was sure these two women were talking about her. The tall one, with her red hair fixed her eyes upon her reflection in the mirror, her lips forming a small o'. The other took notice of her friend's gaze and too saw Christine's face in the mirror.

"Christine Daaé?" The red haired woman murmured. Christine had turned from the mirror, stiffening in her posture.

"No. My name is Christine de Chagny," she said hollowly, moving from the parlor in a blur of skirts. The two women continued to stare at the retreating diva once called Christine Daaé.

* * *

It was a beautiful, traumatic evening! She had hoped that for the first time, going to a public performance she would not be dispelled from the property by rumors, looks, and gossip. Did Raoul know of this? Did he protect her from the gossip and the stares?

Oh he was a dear husband!

She was nearing the end of the hall, when a light from a room attracted her attention. Curiously, she looked in at it while she passed. Within the dim light, she could see the figure of a man seated upon a chair, one leg crossed lazily over the other. In his hand was a glass of wine, which remained stationary in the air.

When looking upon his face, she knew who he was. It was Victor, the pianist from this evening. And to her surprise, his eyes caught sight of her and he immediately stood. They stared at each other with surprise and curiosity. Christine moved away from the door, quickly.

"Please," he said, "enter…"

His tone was friendly, and collective. She moved into the doorway, curtseying.

"Monsieur, I apologize for my rudeness. I was returning to the lobby, and I saw the light."

"Calm down," he said, chuckling, "you are like a frightened child." In a serious tone he asked her softly. "Do I frighten you, Madame?"

She gazed at his handsome face, which held deep concern and curiosity. She slowly shook her head. "No, Monsieur. You do not frighten me. I was just… I was sure you wanted your privacy."

"I did," he said, nodding, looking down at the glass in his hand, "but… the wine is gone, and privacy is disturbed." He moved fluidly to the table in the far corner of the room, placing the glass upon the tray. "Forgive me; I have been terribly rude to you." He bowed instantly, his eyes not leaving her. "My name… is Victor." And he moved to her, tilting his head quizzically. "May I be so bold as to ask for your name? Or shall I guess?"

She laughed lightly. "My name is Christine de Chagny," holding out her hand, waiting for him to kiss it. He looked at her gloved hand for a moment, as if considering what to do with it. She found this puzzling, but watched when he took her hand, gently, lifting it to his lips.

"Christine de Chagny," he murmured, slowly placing his lips upon the fabric of her glove. Dare she say it nearly made her shudder? He removed his lips from the quick contact, and slowly let her hand drop.

"Did you enjoy the performance, Christine?"

The way he spoke her name was as if he was addressing a duchess. She nodded. "I will honestly say, Monsieur, you have Paris and I under your thrall."

He scowled, a horrible look crossing his face. He turned away from her, walking to the fire. "Would it disturb you, Madame de Chagny, that I care nothing of the people of Paris? I could care less what they compared sound to. Especially when it comes to my music…"

This surprised her, hearing him talk like this. "Monsieur?"

He shook his head, his eyes trained on the flames. "Forgive me," he said, "my thoughts are not ones I share so openly. Especially," he said looking up to her, "to someone I have just met."

She nodded, slowly. They both fell into silence.

"Christine?"

The voice had caused both of them to look up and to the door. Raoul had appeared in the door frame.. He strode instantly across the floor, taking her into his arms. "Dearest, I was worried about you. After your departure…" When he noticed Christine's embarrassed attention, he turned to the man of the evening, who was watching them with interest.

"Pardon me, Monsieur," Raoul said with kind honesty, "I had no idea that you were here as well. The performance tonight was visionary, extraordinary. I have not heard anything like that in quite a while…"

The word 'quite' had sparked Victor's interest, and he linked his hands behind his back, his shoulders even. "Really, Monsieur? I am quite honored to receive your praise. You must be … the Viscount de Changy."

"Indeed," he said, surprised that he knew their last name. He eyed Christine for a moment, knowing now she had to have introduced herself. "You have already met my wife Christine."

"I have," he said softly.

Christine took in his expression now with curious eyes. There was something different about him, and it appeared to take place as soon as Raoul entered the room.

_If he had heard a sound, then bless his ears, for she had heard none. But he had turned back to the gate, staring into the dark waters. And soon enough, she could hear the shuffle of fabric and the splash of water. Someone was coming ashore. And soon enough, the face of her beloved appeared, tired and worn from the journey into hell._

_His clothing was ripped, his shirt nearly falling off his skin. He raked a quick hand through his short, sandy blond hair, droplets of water falling into the lake. _

_"Raoul!" She cried, throwing the flower arrangement to the floor, hurrying to the gate. Not caring if water soaked the heavy wedding gown which pooled around her feet. She linked her hand with his cold wet one, and reached through the bars to touch his face._

_"I speak for my bride to be, Monsieur, that we are quite delighted to have you with us tonight. Surely, I believed that you would not come. I wished, hoped, and prayed. And, I must say," he said, a smile crossing his deformed lips, "this has truly made my night."_

_"Free her now, you monster! She is not some exotic bird to be kept in a cage; do you have no pity for her sanity?"_

_"Christine," the monster addressed, "I am truly touched. Your lover, his pleading… it wounds my heart."_

_"Raoul," she murmured, "please… he will not listen." _

_"Christine, do not fret," he whispered back. Looking back to the Phantom, the ghoul watching them with curious eyes, he spoke loudly to him. "Monsieur, we share a common bond. We both love her. Share some compassion, if you have any!"_

_"Compassion," he bellowed, turning his back upon them, gesturing to the world above, "the world showed NO compassion for me. We are two different men, but you do make a point – we share a common bond. Love! But, to you, love is just a given necessity, but to me…" he said, whirling around at them, anger in his eyes, "it does not compare."_

_"Raoul," she murmured, her head falling upon the gate, begging for him to leave. "It is a useless request!"_

_"Let me see her, I will not ask again!" He called, shaking the gate with as much strength as he could muster. The steel would not budge and it only dug into his hands._

_Erik hesitated, looking to his bride. It pained him to see her nearest to tears. With a growl, he moved towards the large organ, moving his hand in a quick gesture. The gate went up, and Christine backed away. But it did not go up all the way, only a little, allowing Raoul to crawl beneath. She looked to Erik, wondering if he would drop the gate, but he moved away from the switch, proving to her he was to be civil. _

_Raoul slithered beneath the water, and rose instantly. Christine wrapped her arms around him, kissing him fully on the lips. He held her tightly, his eyes wandering over her figure, making sure she was all right. He then dropped his lips to her neck, murmuring her name. _

_"Monsieur," Erik called, "you are our guest for the night. So, I do bid you welcome."_

_The gate slid behind them, and Raoul and Christine turned to the movement. But as soon as they did, Raoul fell instantly to the ground, gasping for air. He was then dragged through the water, struggling with a noose wrapped around his neck._

_"NO!" Christine called, looking to Erik who artfully brought Raoul to his knees. His strength was remarkable, and soon enough, Raoul began to rise from the water and on shore, some sort of mechanism pulling him up and off his feet slightly, allowing just his toes to touch. She took notice that Erik had stepped away, his hands leaving the rope to the device._

_"Raise up your hands to the level of your eyes," Erik mocked, making a gesture with his hand nearest to Raoul's face. "You failed to think that I would do such a thing! You surprise me, Monsieur. Never turn your back on me, never!" He crossed his arms, and with a catlike grace, marched in a complete circle around Raoul. _

_Christine hurried to the shore, hurrying to Raoul's side. She looked to Erik, who observed her every moment. "Let him go! Please."_

_"You will let him go, Christine. You see, I don't have to make a choice. You can make that choice; you can save his life…" He reached out and grabbed her hand, pulling her towards his malicious, deformed face. "Buy his freedom with your love. Start a new life with me, and he will be free to go. I will give you what you want. But if you refuse me," he said, twisting her arm tightly, "then I shall kill the boy, and fling him into the lake."_

_"NO!" Christine cried, falling to her knees at the feet of death. _

Christine looked to the man who stood across from them. Could it be? No, it was impossible. For one thing, this man was older, kinder, and gentler.

But so was her Angel of Music. Erik was talented at everything, even a simple masquerade could become his greatest feat. She raised a gloved hand to her temple, pressing on it gently.

"Christine," Raoul said softly, "I'm beginning to worry…"

She cast a glance to Victor, seeing his eyes had looked upon her in concern as well. He continued to stare, and this made her feel a bit uneasy.

"I am slightly unwell, but please, I will be fine," she said, gazing up at Raoul with honesty. "Forgive me, Monsieur. I have been unwell tonight. I do not know what has come over me."

"It's understandable," he said, nodding to the couple. Looking to the wall on the mantle over the fireplace, he chuckled. The small elegant clock ticked away the minutes. "It seems my couple minutes alone have been far more than I hoped. So, if you could excuse me," he fell into a strict bow, "it was a pleasure meeting you both."

He walked past them with an elegant stride, and then disappeared into the hall. Christine leaned into Raoul, pressing on her temple more.

"We have no reason to fear that man," Raoul said, "for he is not our Phantom."

"Do you really think so Raoul?" She asked softly. "For, I cannot be so sure. But, let us go home. I will feel much better once I have Cecilia in my arms."

"Indeed," Raoul said, "this night has been most stressful on you." He guided her from the room, being ever so gentle with her condition. "Christine, I apologize. I thought…"

"Please Raoul! The memories are always there, they will never go away. They are a part of who we are. We have a future, we have a life…"

Raoul bent down and kissed her timid, soft lips. "Indeed, we are blessed." He took her arm and led her down the hall to the lobby. Entering the lobby, eyes fell upon them. Raoul asked for a retrieval of their coats. He continued to hold onto Christine as if she was his world, shielding her from the gossip and the glares.

Christine caught sight of Victor, standing by the far side of the room. He was talking to a group of people, but it seemed as if the people were more or less talking to him. He did not look to Raoul or Christine once.

_Perhaps he is not the man I think he is…_

_"I will not give you any more pity, Erik. You deserve no pity. You are no monster, but a cruel and deceitful man who allows his deformity to take control of his life. I __**hate**__ you!"_

_Erik fell silent, gazing at his bride on the ground. He could see that she was certainly growing up. No longer did she hide her thoughts, fell timid to his words, she was speaking to him – civil and harsh. _

_"Christine, I tried so hard to free you. Forgive me if I cannot do any more. But he has certainly won. You must go with him." Raoul choked out, looking to Christine in defeat._

_"No," she cried, looking to Raoul, "I will not leave you."_

_"Do not fight me, Christine," Erik said, "I will not budge from my ultimatums."_

_She rounded on Erik, staring into his eyes. "I do not believe you. I will not believe you. I may have thought you to be an Angel –_

_"But you believed in me, still! Do not think I cannot do what I have done. The people I have killed, those whom I tormented. They did not die on their own accord."_

_Erik marched over to Raoul, but Christine got between them both, holding her arms out protectively. _

_"Tell me, Christine, who do you choose?"_

_"Why make her lie to you to save me? You fool. You could have her, but will she ever love you? Will she ever be your bride? No… you would have ruined her." Raoul spat, trying to find balance on his toes as he hung there._

_"I could recreate her again!" Erik shouted back._

_"Can you recreate her soul?" Raoul gagged. "Can you?"_

_"I can create anything," Erik murmured, he looked to Christine. "I have created something for you Christine. Something I am sure that you will love me for…"_

_"No more," she cried, holding her hands to her ears. "I will not hear another word, Erik!"_

_"THEN CHOOSE!" He bellowed. "Choose now!" He held out the gold ring, his hand shaking tremendously in fury. "This is the point of no return!"_

_She stared at the ring, the gold bond of unity. The thing that gave him the nobility to say he had a bride, a wife… She was a Christian, she believed in unity in a Church and through a priest. But Erik, he did not believe in God. It all made sense now. She had the ability to save Raoul, but save Erik as well._

_She reached out and grabbed his ring, slipping it on her finger. And getting to her feet, she shocked Erik. She was so aware of everything around her, and her dilemma. Her calm, collective pose shocked even Raoul. _

_"God will give you courage one day, Erik…" With those words, she grabbed his leather like face in her hands, bringing her lips to his own. Erik's lips were quaking beneath hers. They were brittle, hard, and like stone. But they seemed to soften the more she lingered on with the kiss. Erik seemed to not know what to do with his hands, for they hung there, shaking uncontrollably at her sides. Then finally, she felt him slowly bring his hands to her waist, hardly touching her body. _

_His eyes gazed upon her as she pulled away, and she swore her heart was going to break. For his eyes no longer held anger, but fear and sadness… Something she had so rarely seen. _

"Christine," Raoul said, placing the wrap gently upon her shoulders. She took her hands to it numbly. Victor had now moved off to another group of people, shaking his thin hands and congratulating him.

And then, he looked to Christine. She felt shrewd, and so she turned her head away to pay attention to the direction of her husband, leading her out of the Palais. She did not turn back, for tonight was certainly not a night she wanted to remember so well. Especially the man who seemed to embody the soul of her Angel of Music…


	2. Chapter 2

He watched them leave through the doors, disappearing into the cold, dark night. He paid little attention to the crowd of people shaking his hand, making small talk with him. The only thing he saw was her.

_The only thing he wanted once was her…_

"Monsieur Lerik!" A man said, raising his glass. "By tomorrow, you will be the talk of London! Will you ever think of traveling to the States?" There was a murmur of agreement.

This caused him to return to those standing before him. Victor paused for a moment, shaking his head. "My place is here," he said, "and I will continue to play here."

The man nodded, taking a sip from his glass. "Well, then," he said, "we are quite glad that you're here to bring _charm_ back to theatre."

"What do you mean by that, Louis?" A woman's voice asked coming from his right.

"Well," Louis said, "I was a columnist for the Eploque, and I reviewed the Opera's at the Garnier…" He looked around at all the stunned faces. "Yes, during the days of the Opera Ghost."

Everyone laughed. "Was he real?" A man asked.

"No one really knows," Louis replied, "it's still a mystery. But, I nearly fell out of my box at who was seated next to me tonight."

Victor was attentive and said nothing.

"The Viscount and his wife: Christine Daaé!" He guffawed. "Can you believe it? They have been out of the spotlight of the press and the theatre for five years, and tonight they show up." Louis focused his gaze on Victor. "To bring the Viscount and his wife here is a feat indeed. I wouldn't be surprised if her name pops up in the papers again."

Everyone laughed, and Victor smiled. "Is that so, Monsieur?" This had caused all the conversation to be dropped instantly. They were surprised by the level of doubt in his voice.

"I would not doubt it," Louis replied, eyeing Victor with intensity, "any gossip about them and I'd get my job back."

Victor did not reply but continued to stare at Louis. He was as commoner, someone who posed as elite only to win off the favours of the upper class. If he only knew what stood across from him at this exact moment, he would not only have a story, but one that he would take to his grave as well.

Victor did not waste time pushing through this crowd, finding no other reason to chat with the ill minded. He strode from the lobby, and disappeared into the shadows of the halls of the Palais.

Yet, his thoughts still dwelled on the conversation he had heard.

_Five years… That is how long it has been. That is how long Christine has been in hiding… _

He made his way to his dressing room and as soon as he approached it, he unlocked it and slid through it as though he was never outside the door to begin with. He leaned up against the door, staring at his reflection in the mirror directly across from him.

If the Phantom was to perform any feat, any at all, this was the greatest one. Death and Resurrection! To die a criminal and to be reborn a new man! It was so easy, so simple, and he had not regretted it since.

Five years ago, he spent his days, creating something for Christine. He knew how much she feared him. And since she was the only one who he wanted to end his days with, to teach her with song…. What better way to keep her happy than to create a mask – identical to human flesh – to give him a face she would not fear?

That was to be her wedding gift. If she had only stayed, if she only had chosen him! Studying his horrible deformity in a mirror, he had learned to construct a mapping of his skeletal structure and labeled it with what he needed among his tools to create this humanlike face. He had made sure that in the end, the face she would see would be him. No monster, no Angel, no Phantom, but Erik.

But after that night, there was no hope for him. She had done something, twisted his world upside down. She showed him he did not need the mask, she had showed him that she could love him exactly how he was. And when her sweet lips touched his rotten ones, he wanted to tear them away. But the feeling was too exquisite, too blissful.

He could not have her, no matter what he did. She was no longer in his thrall. He had to let her go. She was perfect for her Viscount. He deserved to make him happy as she once did for him. Christine's splendor allowed any person to be charmed by her…and to long to be a part of her company.

It was not a surprise that she had distanced herself so long from the gossip of the public. For, as he had witnessed, they were not very kind to her. They were never kind to her.

His hand formed into a fist against the door, and he bowed his head in thought thinking upon the fools that wandered around, wondering where he had gone to. He did not need them, for as he told Christine, he could care little now what they said.

_Christine…_

He gazed at his reflection in the mirror.

It was impossible that this man, masking fame and fortune, could be the man they both recalled after so many years. The Opera Ghost, the Phantom of the Opera…

He had murder to account for, lies to repent for, and how did he do it? By playing for Paris every night? It was wicked, but it was the only thing he could offer. He wanted companionship, he cared little for fame. How he became rooted in this predicament was quite an amusing one. Something he was sure would never happen as an Opera Ghost.

It was earlier in the year, after he had established a name, did he make a trip to the store to purchase ink and paper. He would never forget the looks he received when walking down the street. Women blushed; gentlemen tipped their hats in regard. As far as they knew, he was just another one of _them_. But he was far from it.

Upon entering the store, the store owner greeted him humbly. "Good afternoon, Monsieur, I have your order."

Erik enjoyed this man greeting him quite humbly, and he moved to the counter to inspect the package that the man had brought out from behind the desk. He watched the store owner unwrap the bundle. And the parchment fell gently into the store owner's hands.

"Like always, our best parchment paper Monsieur," he handed it out to Erik, who was removing his gloves from his hands to touch the paper. He touched it ever so gently, almost intimately. The store owner watched him.

"As always, dear sir, I feel ever so humbled to receive such excellent service from you…" He murmured, transfixed by the paper.

"You are a composer?" The store owner asked.

Erik thought this quite a funny question to be asked. "Yes," he replied, not wanting to anger this humbled man, "one could say that, sir."

"If I were you," he said, tapping the paper, "I would submit your pieces."

"Why?" Erik fumed instantly. "Why should anyone hear my pieces?" He nearly snapped right there. But he watched the face on the store owner jerk in surprise. Erik relaxed, upset that he let this man (who had always been kind to him in the past) be frightened.

"I am sorry, sir," he said instantly, "If I offended, it was not intentional. You are one of my honored customers, and you seem different from those who come in here to buy my stock."

Erik nodded. "Different indeed, sir," he said, "and I am grateful."

"I as well," the shop owner said, "so please, take my word. Submit your work, I know someone who is looking for a new pianist. The Palais is looking for a new performance. Who knows? You could be the one."

And Erik's lips lifted into a smile, pressing a few notes onto the table. "Then, perhaps I might…"

And that's how it started. It was all too quick, the store owner taking one of the small, minimal pieces to his friend. Who apparently, read it, loved every bit of it. He reported he had never seen anything like this. And within a matter of hours, Erik was guaranteed a spot in Paris' entertainment district.

He chuckled to himself, shaking his head. He approached the mirror now, touching the reflection of the well groomed, well distinguished man standing before him. For years, he thought of being this man, this very man who looked back into his eyes. He turned his head, admiring the work of the mask.

Gently, he lifted the neatly combed wig from his head, allowing the sparse hair to be seen. He placed that down upon the vanity carefully. And he then lifted his fingers to a thin string hidden behind his ears, and plucked away the flexible like mask. The face that stared back at him was no longer the handsome man from this evening, but the same man who stared at him every night.

Disgusted with himself, he turned his face to stare the mask that had given him so much. So much he did not care for. But it had not given him the very thing he wanted to achieve with it – Christine.

Though tonight, he saw there was indeed some hidden chemistry between them. Though she did not recognize him, she did not leave his presence to find her husband, her _lover_. She remained stationary, gazing at him intently. Could she believe that the man that stood before her was her Angel?

The Viscount did say she had taken ill during the performance, and she was moved to tears. Obviously, like others, it had affected her. But, it struck her emotions because his music was about her. It was always about her…

She was his music, and would always be his music. Why was it difficult for him not to let that go? Because he had created her, that was why. He could not deny that the person she was today was because he turned her from a child into a woman. A woman he had thought of turning into a wife, into a lover.

He was strong to admit that he had thought of her often, that his member would stiffen. When he had first brought her to his lair, the fact she was resting in his arms, brushing her body past him… it was too intoxicating. She was sure she had felt his erection cradled against her womanly frame. It had frightened her, and she ran from him. But soon enough, she learned to relax, and through the temptation of music, he took control of her body.

He had thought of his wedding night, if she had chosen him, all too often. It was not so frequent, but when he began wearing the mask, he would slip into idle day dreams. Having Christine stretched on the bed, him cradling over her, brushing a hand down her torso and to the one place that his hands had longed to quest. To touch, and to play like the strings on a violin! Her gazing across to the face of her lover, smiling, stroking his cheek with desire while he rid her of her wedding gown, learning together how love one another only music and body could be done.

He started panting, gripping his chest tightly, and his other hand falling against the mirror for balance. He cast a side glance at his face, knowing all too well that eventually she would know that the face beneath that mask was still a monster. Still a demon she feared.

So, in the end, the mask was only to his benefit. _And to the public,_ he thought bitterly. It would always be for the people, never for him. When would there be something for him?

* * *

Christine followed Raoul slowly inside the house, the door opening as they reached the doorstep.

"How was it, Christine?"

Raoul helped Christine past the threshold of the door, eying her with absolute care. "Christine has taken ill, Annaliese. Could you please see to it that she is changed?"

"Of course, Monsieur," Annaliese said, taking Christine's arm, her face falling. "Come Christine," she murmured, helping Christine up the stairs. Raoul followed them, noticing the gentleness that the young, blond haired girl had over Christine. He was grateful that they got along so closely. It reminded him of Christine's friend long ago, Meg Giry. He had often wondered how she had been over the years, for he was sure that Christine missed her terribly.

As Raoul parted one way towards their daughter's room, he heard Annaliese whisper to Christine: "Was the performance not thrilling?"

He did not hear Christine's answer. But he was sure Christine would tell her it was, besides everything that happened. He strode to the door that held their five year old daughter, picking up the candelabrum outside. Opening the door, he peered in.

There was their pride and joy: Cecilia. The young child was asleep in the darkness of the room, a tiny doll curled in her arms. Raoul moved deeper into the room, placing the candelabrum on the table next to the door with gentle care. He did not wake her, for it was quite late – half past twelve!

Coming to Cecilia's bed, he sat near her, studying their daughter as she slept. Could God not bless them with anything more beautiful? He reached out, pushing a strand of her long brown hair from her sleeping face.

Her eyes flickered open, turning over lazily. She smiled, and then fell back to sleep. Raoul smiled at this, and kissed her forehead. He loved Cecilia as much as he loved his wife.

And so he sat in silence, until he heard the soft footsteps coming closer to them. Turning his head, he saw Christine standing before him in a blue dress robe. She looked so elegant, even when retiring for the night. He rose gently from the bed and held out his hand. Christine immediately took it and he pulled her softly into his embrace.

"How is she," he heard Christine's light airy whisper float through the silence.

"Safe, protected, and loved," he replied, turning her gently to look at their daughter. A smile came over Christine's lips as she inched towards the bed, reaching down and pulling the duvet cover warmly over her. When done, she looked back up to Raoul and they both exited the room hand in hand. Once the door was closed behind them, they walked silently to their room.

"Raoul," she murmured, "tell me. Are you absolutely sure that it wasn't him?"

Raoul was not caught off guard, for he was waiting for Christine to question him once more about the peculiar evening. He opened the door to their bedroom, allowing Christine in first. The lamps were already burning, thanks to Annaliese. He removed his evening coat, placing it over the divan.

"Christine," he said, trying to think of the best possible way to put his thoughts into perspective. "I do not know this man as much as you did, and even so, you did not know who he was. He pretended to be so many things, to both of us. For me to say that he wasn't, it would still cause you some alarm. But for me to say he is our Phantom," he paused, "you would still be alarmed."

She turned and strode to the bed, sitting down on the edge.

"I am going mad," she murmured, "I hear him so often, I can never forget his voice." She brought her hands to her face.

Raoul looked upon his wife, sensing her pain. There was a level sometimes that he could not ever reach, and it all was thanks to Him. He moved to her, and got down on his knees.

"Do not say that," he said, clasping her hands within his own. "Never say that, Christine." He pulled a hand away from her face, looking at her worried expression. "…He let us go, Christine. If he still wanted you, why would he let you go? Why have we not seen him for five years? Perhaps he is wants you to live a life, forget him…"

She was silent, thinking this over quite well.

"But I am here," he said, raising a hand to her cheek, "I'm always here when you need me, my love. Never think that I will desert you."

She smiled, and then her hands grasped his slowly. "I will try to be more honest with you, Raoul."

"Whatever do you mean, Christine?" He asked, quite shocked at her statement. "You have nothing to apologize to me about. For I know, from the moment that I said I loved you, that I would follow you through whatever hardships you face. For I am for you, as you are for me."

She reached a hand out and caressed his face, smiling at her beloved. "Raoul, you always know what words to say."

* * *

The morning came soon enough, the sun casting rays on the sheets of the large bed that accommodated both Raoul and Christine. A small knock came on the door, hardly waking the sleeping couple. Raoul had rolled over onto his side, pulling Christine closer against his frame.

The door of the bedroom opened, and Cecilia poked her head in to look at her parents. Those who had seen the child said that she was the spitting image of her mother. Brown hair, brown eyes, beautiful, and most of all…curious, which is why she had snuck into the room so early in the morning.

Cecilia made her way over to her parents' bed, pausing at the end. She hurried over to her father, climbing up onto the bed. There was some effort, since the bed was taller than hers. But soon enough, she had poised herself at her father's side, poking him in the back.

"Papa," she whispered. "Papa you awake?"

Raoul had heard Cecilia, and waited for her response when he did not reply. He felt her shift over, crawling closer to look at his face (which was currently nestled in Christine's curls).

"Papa?" She asked again, reaching out a hand to touch his face. But before she could, Raoul released his arms from Christine and grabbed Cecilia, dragging her beneath the covers between the both of them.

"Good morning," he said, kissing her on the forehead. Cecilia giggled, and then turned to Christine who was just waking up. She turned over, seeing Cecilia and smiled.

"Mama!" Cecilia cried, and Christine reached over and tapped her on the nose lazily.

"Hello my darling," she said. Christine looked over to Raoul, arching an eyebrow. "Are we hiding from someone?" She asked, which made Cecilia giggle.

"Yes," Raoul answered back, "we are hiding from the morning. It likes to sneak up on us, so I thought that we'd beat it at its game. Let us hide from the morning, and perhaps, it will think it is still night."

Cecilia giggled again, and Raoul pulled her into his arms, laughing. Christine looked upon them fondly, loving how much of a father Raoul was to their daughter. She could not ask for anything more…

Raoul and Christine exited their bedroom, Cecilia between them. Christine dressed in her blue silk robe, and Raoul dressed in a pair of slacks and a long black robe. Raoul then scooped his daughter up in his arms, carrying her down the curvy staircase.

"Sir," a man said, entering from the side parlor, "I have the mail, when would you like it?"

"Breakfast," Raoul answered back, "thank you Marciel." Marciel bowed, and went to fetch the mail.

"Oh, there you are!" Annaliese said, seeing Cecilia in Raoul's arms. Annaliese was wearing a nice floral striped gown, and her hair was tied back in a neat bun. "I wasn't sure if you wanted your sleep," she said, looking upon Christine and Raoul.

"It is quite all right," Raoul answered back. "Has the cook prepared breakfast?"

"Yes," Annaliese said, "it is almost ready." She then looked to Christine, smiling. "Have you recovered? It seems that you have!"

Christine nodded. "Yes, I just needed some sleep that's all."

"I thought so," she said, nodding too. Annaliese looked to Cecilia, holding out her arms. "I shall Miss Cecilia to the table, and make sure that the cook brings your meal first. I hear she is making something special for you."

"Really?" Cecilia cried, and Raoul placed her on the floor. "Please!"

"Of course, mistress, of course," Annaliese said, laughing, taking Cecilia by the hand and leading her into the dining room.

Christine smiled at Annaliese and how sweet she was. "Honestly, Raoul, what could we do without her?"

"I've thought the same thing," he answered back fondly; "she is truly a gift to us."

They entered the dining room, Raoul taking his seat at the head of the table. Christine was seated on his right, and Annaliese was on his left. He smiled at the two of them.

"Monsieur," Marciel said, entering the room with a quick grace. Raoul looked up, and frowned. Louis usually arrived with the mail, but in his hands was nothing. He looked worried.

"Is there something the matter, Marciel?" Raoul asked.

"There are two gentlemen outside wishing to speak to you," Marciel asked, "may I send them in?"

Raoul looked to Christine, frowning slightly. He gazed back at Marciel. "Who, may I ask, are they?"

"Monsieur Debaunchet and Monsieur Ames," Marciel replied, striding to Raoul and handing the name cards of both gentlemen. Raoul took the two cards and then passed them over to his wife.

Christine looked over the cards and then handed them back to Raoul so that she could attend to Cecilia.

Raoul stood from the table, nodding to Louis. "Have them wait in the study," he said, "I will go get changed. Dearest," Raoul said gently, turning his eyes to Christine, "I am sorry."

"No," Christine said instantly, "Cecelia and I shall finish breakfast and then go and play in the garden."

Raoul smiled, and pushing his chair in, he exited the dining room with Marciel. His eyes went down to look at the two names on the cards. _Strange, as soon as we make our way back into public, I'm being called upon. _

* * *

Raoul stepped through the doors of the study, closing them behind him. "I am sorry to keep you gentlemen waiting," he announced. "But, my wife and I have just attended to breakfast."

The two men on the couches stood, turning to look at Raoul. They were elite men, sophisticated from head to toe – not just by clothing, but by posture too. They approached Raoul, and fell into tight bows.

"Monsieur," one said, "it is a pleasure that we are finally meeting you at last." He reached out his hand, waiting for Raoul's. "I am Monsieur Debaunchet, and this is my associate Monsieur Ames."

"Pleasure to meet you," Raoul said, taking Monsieur Ames hand and shaking it as well. "Please, sit gentlemen. Would you like something to drink? I could have some wine brought in?"

"Ah, Monsieur, you are quite kind indeed," Monsieur Ames said, "but I am afraid we must decline. For you see, we have much to talk about and wine will only deter the conversation!"

Raoul laughed. "Of course," Raoul said, taking his spot in his high backed rose chair. The two gentlemen sat on either side of him on the couches. "Now, what is that brings you to my chateau?"

"What can you tell us about Erik?" Monsieur Debaunchet asked, his eyes steady on Raoul.

"Erik?" Raoul asked, arching a slender brow. "Who is Erik?"

"Erik," Monsieur Ames said, "ah, you know him by his other name. The Phantom of the Opera?"

Raoul stood instantly from his seat, his fists curling. "Get out," he said sharply.

"Please, sir," Monsieur Ames said, holding up his hands in defense. "We only want answers…"

"No," Raoul said, easing towards the sofa, "I think I want answers. What gives you the opportunity to show up at my home? And the day after my wife show up in the city? I find that rather questionable."

"Monsieur de Chagny," Monsieur Debaunchet said, "I think you are mistaking us. We came to track down the murderer of three men, and the kidnapper of your wife. We want justice."

"I want justice as well, Monsieur. Did you not think of how long my wife and I tried to put things behind us?" Raoul locked his hands behind his back. "It is men like you who keep bringing up the past. No more pain, no more talk." Raoul then strode away from the two men, opening the doors to the study. He turned to the men, gesturing to the exit. "Please, the door is open and I would like you to leave my house."

Monsieur Ames and Debaunchet looked to one another and then stood slowly. They walked to the door, Monsieur Debaunchet exiting first. Monsieur Ames stood there, reaching into his jacket pocket. He withdrew an elegant card, presenting it to Raoul.

"If you need to reach us, this is how you can Monsieur."

Raoul took it without a word and watched Debaunchet exit through the doors and following Ames out of the house. Raoul leaned against the door frame, resting his head against the wall. He looked down at the card in his hand.

_Joseph Saruge_

Puzzled, he only wondered why he was presented with the calling card of a man who was not one of the men who arrived at his house.

* * *

When Raoul had purchased their château, he made sure to give Christine a garden. Besides their daughter, it was Christine's other pride and joy. Raoul had ordered every flower available to France. And, the look on Christine's face when seeing the exquisite garden had delighted her.

Christine, currently attending to the flowers, watched Cecilia scamper through the hedges. Annaliese approached alongside of her, delicately taking a flower in her fingers and lowering her nose to it.

"I love the smell of these, Christine," she said, letting go of it and tending to the flowers. "They look like roses, but are they?"

"They are, these are diamond roses," Christine replied. She picked a flower, twirling it between her fingers. "They are unique, aren't they?" She then looked up to see where Cecilia was. Christine spied her running among the hedges. She smiled fondly.

"It appears the gentlemen are done speaking to Raoul," Annaliese said, nodding to the walk. And that was so, for Christine saw them leaving and entering the carriage. Her brow furrowed. The carriage was certainly not a town carriage, it was a private carriage. There were initials on the outer door, but she could not make them out.

"Annaliese," she said softly, "I will be honest with you. I am quite frightened."

"Christine?" Annaliese turned her eyes away from the gentlemen. "Why?"

"Ever since last night, I have been uneasy…." She moved to another part of the bush, snipping off a few more flowers. She gave them to Annaliese, who put them in her basket around her arm. "You are a good friend," she said warmly, "I think of you as a sister that I never had. And, I feel that I should be honest with you."

"Christine," Annaliese said quietly, "it's all right… Please."

Christine turned to Annaliese. "How much do you know of my past before working here?"

"Very little," Annaliese said, guarded, "I was told rumors. I didn't believe them, for I was to experience things first hand. I knew that you wished for privacy, and that you were once and Opera singer. And Raoul was a patron."

Christine listened, and nodded when she finished. "Yes, that is all true." She hesitated, looking to Cecilia. "But, not entirely. You see, I was a chorus girl. I was a dancer. Nothing more… Until…" Christine fell silent, wetting her lips.

"Until what, Christine?" Annaliese asked, placing a timid hand on her arm. "You've gone awfully pale!"

She shook her hand free, gently. "I am all right, I'm just always like this, I'm afraid. When I was a little girl, my father told me stories. Before I went to bed, while saying my prayers, he told me of an Angel of Music. He told me that the Angels had bore me to my mother with the promise that an Angel of Music would come to me. And in return of my prayers, he would teach me to sing."

Annaliese was silent, watching Christine with wide eyes. Christine looked to her, becoming uneasy of her glance. "I know," she said, taking the flowers she had collected in her hand, and giving them to Annaliese. "It sounds silly. But, I was young, naïve. But I believed my father. And, when he died, his words were all I had."

"I waited," she continued on, "I waited for years. I came to Paris; I enrolled in the Opera Garnier. I was at the end, I believed. I thought it was the end, that my Angel would never come. But he did."

Annaliese shook her head. "Christine, no, you had to have been dreaming!"

"That's what my friend said," she murmured, "she said I was dreaming when I had finally told her the night of my first performance. But, he came to me in my small little dressing room. He said that he had been testing me, to see if I was ready to believe in him, to follow him. And, when I said yes, he told me that my soul was his. And, in return, he would give me a voice."

"It went on for months, I think. I lost track of time. I believed he knew everything about me. He was indeed an Angel. Sometimes he would tell me stories, sometimes about heaven and the different angels. The stories he told seemed almost like things that you would experience on earth. But, even as he told me these stories, he seemed sad."

"I remember the night of my first performance. I was so frightened. But, I felt as if he was near me. I couldn't see him, but I knew he was there. And when the night ended, he told me that the angels wept – I had fully given him my soul."

Annaliese could hardly believe the story she was hearing. She was stunned to hear her speak so truthfully and so passionately about something so odd. An Angel of Music? No, there had to be more to this story.

"Annaliese," she whispered, "I -

"Christine?"

Before Christine could finish her story, Raoul had exited the veranda. Spying them, he hurried down the stairs. He had become quizzical at the sight of Christine.

"What seems to be the matter, love?" He asked, glancing over to Annaliese. Christine smiled warmly and shook her head.

"Nothing," she responded, "we were just talking."

Raoul nodded once, but said nothing in response. Christine looked to Annaliese, who continued to stare at the both of them. She wanted to know more from Christine, her expression spoke this.

"Where is Cecilia?"

"She's picking flowers," Annaliese said, "I'll find her." Annaliese excused herself from Christine and Raoul, striding across the garden in search of their child. Christine looked to Raoul. She could not stand the odd silence.

"Raoul," she whispered gently, "who were those men? What did they want?"

"I don't know who they are, but they're gone now," he said firmly. Christine was not happy with the answer.

"Raoul," she pressed, "please."

He looked to Christine, crossing his arms. He was unsure of to tell her or not. A part of him did not want to after everything that had happened last night. He was sure she was still on edge and the appearance of the gentlemen did nothing but increase her fears.

"Christine," he said finally, "they wanted to know about your past and mine. I did not like it, so I told them to leave."

Christine's eyes widened, she clutched her arms around her waist. Raoul sought to comfort her quickly, moving his arms to her shoulders.

"Christine," he said, pressing a tender kiss to her hair, "I'm sorry. I know how you're feeling now, for when –

"Raoul," she choked out, turning around. "Five years! Five years without a single word. And after we finally breach public…" She fell into sobs, pressing her cheek against his coat. "I'm frightened."

He nodded, seeing Annaliese return with Cecilia's hand within hers. When he married Christine, he swore that he would protect her. And now, with Cecilia, he had to make it his priority that he continued to do so.

* * *

"We could have implored the Viscount…" Monsieur Ames said slowly, watching his partner through the slits of his eyes. "Now he probably suspects us."

"Patience," Monsieur Debaunchet said softly, reaching into the pocket within his jacket. He removed a silver case, opened it, and selected a fine cigar. He offered it to Monsieur Ames who grunted at it in disgust, falling against the seat with annoyance. He watched Debaunchet raise the cigar to his nose, smelling it, and then reach for a match.

"…A smoke? Really…"

"Yes," Debaunchet said, glaring at Ames while lighting the cigar. Flicking the match, he raised the cigar to his lips inhaling deeply. He let his hand drop. "Now, we wait."

"Wait… Wait for what? Wait for the Viscount and his wife to call the authorities?"

"No," he said, glancing out the window. "As I told you before, this is what needs to be done. Do not fret, we have done well for now. He knows what he's doing."

Ames felt compelled to speak against that comment, but he decided not to. So far, Debaunchet was right. He was _always_ right. After working alongside him for years, he never felt the reason to disagree. But now, this was a different matter. There was something odd about this…

Debaunchet watched his friend out of the corner of his eyes, raising the cigar to his lips. He wanted to tell his friend to relax, but he was given strict instructions by their employer that the job was simply go in, ask the following questions – if the Viscount refused, then they were to leave. And if he did not (which was very unlikely, as thought), they were to simply jot down what they could about the incidents.

But all was going according to plan…


	3. Chapter 3

Erik, the Opera Ghost, hated conversation.

Victor, the acclaimed pianist of France, enjoyed conversation.

So, as much as he loathed giving conversation to the owner of the Theatre du Palais, he had to take it in. He was Victor, after all. So, with a small brisk knock, he strode through the door.

"Victor!" Monsieur Mossay said, getting up from behind the desk and gesturing to a seat. "Please, sit!"

"I am afraid," Victor said softly, "I prefer standing. Nothing personal, Monsieur, I assure you."

"Of course," Monsieur Mossay said, hesitating, "of course." Victor took notice of what Monsieur Mossay was looking at before he entered. The paper from two nights ago, which dictated his performance.

"We had a fantastic review," Monsieur Mossay said, "I am sure that you are aware."

"Indeed," Victor replied, tossing his hands behind his back. He was growing impatient. Monsieur Mossay took notice of this, and cleared his throat.

"You apparently attracted some interesting guests that evening," Mr. Mossay said with a chuckle. "The de Chagny's, of all people…. And you brought them out of the woodwork."

Victor did not share in the humor, but he knew instantly where the conversation was going. He could feel his shoulders growing tense, and his hands flexing into fists.

"What would you say, Victor, if I arranged Christine de Chagny to perform alongside you for a night?"

_Ah, so he finally uttered it… _Then, how could he have been so foolish to think that this was not to come?

"What do you say to a visit to the de Chagny's residence?" Mossay asked, turning his back to grab a paper and a pen.

"No," Victor said. Monsieur Mossay turned, arching an eyebrow. He then fell into a fit of laughter.

"Oh, come, Victor! This is a great opportunity. Paris has now become involved with the lives of the de Chagny's again."

"And I have not, Monsieur Mossay. I prefer to work alone, I do not write for comebacks."

Mr. Mossay was stunned. "Victor, I…I am sorry," he stammered. "I mean, if that is how you feel."

Victor laughed. "Of course, that is how I feel." But at a pause, he observed the face on the man who sat before him. Was it suspicion that clouded his features? The hatred towards the public, especially the de Chagny's was shocking. It seemed to have come out of nowhere to someone like Monsieur Mossay. He had to remember, he was living the life of someone else…

Victor sighed. "I am sorry, Monsieur… Forgive me," he said, hand up to his head. "I merely forget my place."

"That's quite all right, Victor," Monsieur Mossay said, slowly. "It was just a suggestion."

"Indeed," Victor said with a sigh. "A suggestion worth taking into consideration," he said, linking an arm around his back. "Monsieur, please, I am curious to wonder – why, personally, do you want Lady de Chagny and I to perform? Is it for money?"

Mr. Mossay seemed hesitant. "No, it isn't for money Victor. I just recall her voice. I was many of whom came to see her perform those nights." He shook his head. "Poor girl, she was haunted by that…ghost. It was all over the papers."

"And would that make her reluctant," Victor said softly. "I just fear for Lady de Chagny's welfare, I hope you understand that."

"There is nothing for you to worry about, Victor." Mr. Mossay chuckled, picking up the pen and sliding the paper in front of him. Victor watched as he started writing out the letter asking for approval from the de Chagny's for a visit. Each drop of ink made him cringe, and he did not know how long he could last.

"If you forgive me, Sir," Victor said, dropping his arm and striding immediately to the door, "but I must be on my way."

"Of course, of course, Victor," he said, "I shall see you tomorrow evening?"

He turned and bowed, his eyes leveling to Monsieur Mossay's. "I am sure of it."

* * *

Annaliese was only eighteen when she started working for the de Chagny residence.

As an outsider, she knew only very little of the past that surrounded the mysterious husband and wife. She knew that they were a well-to-do couple that preferred to live outside of the town, kind, and hardly made contact with the public.

And for the five years she worked for them, she had become quite close to them – almost like a family. They were far too kind to her – making sure she had everything, and that she was treated with respect. And on top of that, she had gained a trusting friendship with Christine.

But never in the years of her working did she know of the mysterious past that surrounded Christine and Raoul. She had, indeed, heard rumors when she entered town on occasion. It was always surprise. But surprise over what, was the question that went through her mind.

And now, she was fitting the pieces together. Bit by bit, as Christine told her in hushed words about her childhood, her father, and her angel of music… It was like hearing a faerie tale! She knew why everyone responded with that same surprised 'expression'.

She never heard the end of the story, since Raoul appeared, causing Christine to fall into silence. But she wanted to know more. Yet, she did not have the heart to implore. She would have to wait for Christine to breach her past again.

Annaliese had left the garden, a dozen or so small thoughts flittering in her head. _Who was this Angel of Music?_ It bothered her that this story was weighing on Christine's mind and she had never spoken of it.

Dinner was always when she would sit with the De'Chagny's and eat with them. Of course, they thought of her as 'family', so it was justly so. Annaliese sat on the opposite side of Raoul, while Christine was on his other side and was helping Cecilia.

"Cecilia, and Annaliese," Raoul said, looking over to both of them, "what would you say for an outing tomorrow?"

"Yes!" Cecilia cried, clapping her hands and giggling enthusiastically.

Annaliese smiled, "I would be delighted."

"And you, Christine? What do you think of the idea?"

Christine looked up to Raoul with fear and uncertainty. "… I, I don't know." She fell into silence while Cecilia looked up to her. "I'm not ready yet."

"Christine," Raoul said softly, "what is it that you're worried about? I will be there, and so will your daughter and Annaliese." He reached over and pressed his hand to hers, lifting it gently to his lips. "Please, my dearest, I feel that we cannot let our fears take over our lives."

Christine then looked to Annaliese and then to Raoul. She smiled and nodded. "Oui, Raoul. I will go into town tomorrow."

* * *

Annaliese was helping the cook finish for the night when Raoul had found her. Brushing past the cook, he eased his way over to help her.

"Please," she said, laughing, "What in the world will Christine say when she sees you?"

"I did eat off these plates," he said with a matter of fact tone, "so I might as well help you put them away."

Annaliese nodded. "Monsieur de Chagny," she began, "I worry about Christine… We are so close, but today I saw that she was deeply upset. I am hoping that this outing that you have planned for tomorrow will lift her spirits. But, even the mention of an outing it only made things worse."

Raoul sighed. "That is what I wanted to talk to you about," he said, watching the cook leave. And when they were alone in the pantry, and the last dish was put away, he turned to her.

"I know Christine must have discussed with you some of our past," he said with a slight pain. "Not many people know the whole story. Exactly how far did she tell you?"

"She told me," Annaliese wetted her lips, "of her childhood, her father, and… an Angel of Music."

Raoul nodded, turning around and leaning against the cupboards. Annaliese saw his brow crinkling and watched as he reached into his coat to retrieve a small card.

"Monsieur," Annaliese said, "it's not my place, and I did not ask for Christine to tell me…"

"I was glad that she did," Raoul said instantly, "Annaliese, you and Christine are like sisters. I was wondering when she would tell you at all."

Annaliese felt a bit relieved. "Yet, you speak in privacy to me as well?"

"Christine told me after dinner what she had started to tell you," he said softly, "and she believed that the rest of the story should come from me."

"Oh?" Annaliese asked. "A pantry would not be the proper place for this, then?"

"Indeed, to the study…" Raoul said, gesturing with his hand.

* * *

Raoul closed the doors as Annaliese took a seat on one of the couches. Raoul had taken a seat in his high backed chair. He still had the small card out, tapping it away at the armrest.

"Christine was young when she met me. I had made an outing with my Aunt at Perros Guriec, and I saw a young girl crying on the shore. When I sought to find the reason why she was crying, I noticed a small woolen red scarf out at sea."

"I instantly dove in, fetched it, and retrieved it. And in the end, she rewarded me with a kiss. From that moment on, we developed a friendship for one another – as well as my aunt and her father. He was known throughout the island as a storyteller and a violinist. Every night, my aunt would bring me to their little home and her father would spin her stories of The Angel of Music. Being as I was of the age to not believe in those stories, two things caught my attention: how well he had told them, and how well Christine was entranced by them."

"The Angel of Music, in her father's stories," Raoul said, his voice becoming a bit heavier and serious, "was an angel, but one of great power and full of mystery. He almost seemed to care for a young girl, Little Lotte. Little Lotte was always referred to as Christine, because of her love for chocolates, shoes, and little things that we shared or did as children. The Angel of Music always vowed to stay near her and teach her how to sing."

"When I had met Christine those years when she was a singer at the Opera Garnier, she was indeed a singer. I always knew she had a remarkable voice, but to hear her voice that night… it was unearthly." He said, looking over to Annaliese. "Even when she still sings to Cecilia, it remains unchanged over the years. … All because of Him…"

"He, the Angel of Music was a man?" Annaliese was stunned.

"When I had become patron of the Opera Garnier, I was told later on that the theatre was inhabited by an Opera Ghost. The ghost seemed to own the theatre and had everyone under his control. Christine disappeared the night that we had first met and I never saw her again until a few days later. But I received a note telling me not to see her again."

"It was from the Opera Ghost, of course. And soon enough, one night, when the Ghost appeared during a performance, Christine and I stole away. And there, on the rooftop, she confided in me. And there did I piece together that her Angel of Music and this Phantom were one in the same. And he was a man, who was deformed… and lived somewhere in the Opera Garnier. I swore to her that night my life and my right as a lover, a friend, and a devoted fiancé that I would do all I that could to protect her. For the fear in her eyes was something I can never forget…"

Annaliese was frightened. This is why their life was shrouded in so much privacy! The Opera Ghost had left them in fear!

"Monsieur," she murmured, "this is indeed shocking."

"This is why Christine lives for her privacy," he murmured, "and why I feel obliged to give it to her. She has always been shy, Annaliese. But ever since the incidents at the Opera Garnier, and with… the Phantom… She has pressed herself deeper into seclusion. Our outing from last night gained interest in the local papers, _and,_" he said flicking the card against a finger, "the gentlemen that arrived here this morning. I've told Christine what they want, and that has just brought everything that she has tried these last five years to forget to return in greater force."

"Is the Opera Ghost…this Phantom," Annaliese corrected, "is he still alive? What happened to him?"

"We do not know," he said, standing, "Christine and I have often wondered the same question. We only hope that he has found peace after everything and that he will leave Christine alone. Even though I detest the man, I pity him to some extent. Christine is beautiful, but that is not why I married her. And that is not why he fell in love with her either. We both saw something in her, something that made us know we wanted to be there beside her…"

Raoul strode to the doors of the study, opening them and allowing Annaliese to exit first.

"I understand, Monsieur," Annaliese said, "and I thank you for sharing this information with me. It allows me a bit more insight on why you live the way you do. I never questioned it, always respected it. And I respect it even more."

Raoul smiled warmly. "That is why we are grateful of your care. Now, I have a daughter and a sleeping wife to see. I bid you good night, Annaliese," Raoul said, with a small incline of his head. Annaliese returned with a tiny curtsey of her own. Raoul turned and walked up the staircase to Cecelia's room.

Annaliese was alone in the foyer, still taking in everything that she had just heard.

* * *

That afternoon, the carriage bearing the de Chagny crest made its way through the slightly populated streets of Paris. Inside were Christine, Raoul, Annaliese and young Cecilia. This was the first time Cecilia was seeing the city, so she had crawled onto Annaliese's lap to stare out of the window in wide eyed fascination.

"Be careful," Annaliese said, holding onto Cecilia with care, "you don't want to fall out, little Miss!"

Cecilia turned to Annaliese, giggling, and then turned back to make little noises of appreciation at the people selling things on the street and other carriages passing them by.

Looking over to Raoul and Christine, she could see that the attention was not on their daughter more or less on each other. Christine's hand was entwined in Raoul's, and she was staring far off into space. Raoul kept a watchful eye on her, waiting for the slightest moment when she would awaken from her thought and capture her eyes with his own.

The carriage came to a stop nearest the curb and the driver climbed down from his perch. Annaliese made sure to draw her cloak hood and take Cecilia by the hand. Raoul kissed Christine's cheek, and whispered something causing her to turn to him a smile. Raoul climbed out from the carriage and offered her his hand, which she accepted. Giving a wary glance to Annaliese, who returned with a smile of her own, she exited the carriage too.

Annaliese moved her way out of the carriage, taking Cecilia with her. When they were on the curb, Annaliese then drew Cecilia close to her side. Cecilia warmly obliged and started pointing at everything she saw.

In a matter of a second, Annaliese began to see why they had resulted in keeping a secluded lifestyle. Everyone in the vicinity had their eye on the couple. Raoul paid no attention to this and turned to the driver.

"Thank you, we will be ready to go with a few hours. You may follow us or you may drive around the city." Raoul deposited some francs into his hand, and the driver bowed and returned to his perch.

"Shall we, ladies?" Raoul asked, offering his arm to Christine who accepted it quickly. He moved down the walk.

Though Annaliese was with them, she was also to get food for the cook. She was given a little of spices from a certain sellers that if she passed the store she was to by what was needed. So far, the stores were nowhere to be seen – this was the shops, the sophisticated side of Parisian lifestyle.

As minutes passed, they had stopped at a few windows so that Raoul could casually talk about fashion to Christine. Christine was started to creep out from the shell of fear that had surrounded her thoughts and respond with warmth and humor. Annaliese smiled at this. Cecilia had broken away from her a couple times to come to the window and peer inside. Raoul then would laugh and ask her what she found of the dress being displayed or the shoes and Cecilia would obviously say she wanted them.

Annaliese took a look around the city during one of the moments, and that was when she saw him. His eyes were locked on the de Chagny's, including the daughter. He was young, older than her, and his mouth was agape. Beside him was another man who was pointing at them. And when his eyes found hers, she turned away. But from the corner of her eyes, he had removed a pad of paper and started writing things down.

She did not know if she should say something right now, or if she should notify them if this person was to become more suspicious later. In the end, she had to be careful on this walk.

* * *

He irritably pulled on his gloves as he exited the shop. Dressed in his elegant evening suit, white gloves and his cloak, one could say that he was always dressed for the occasion. As if somehow he was called to perform at every given second. Victor was always performing. And he never tired of it.

He had just put in an order for more parchment paper, since he had spent all night crumpling arias and piano concertos. This _duet_ was going to be the death of him. Part of him wanted to find that letter, even if it meant going to the de Chagny residence and stealing it from the hands of the carrier himself.

But he dismissed the thought over the chance of the location and if he would be seen. And he hated to think calling upon the door and startling the family and those around the residence into suspicion.

_Damn you!_ He thought, gripping his hand into a fist.

"Did you not see how beautiful she was? I assumed that they would have a boy. An heir to the residence, of course would have been quite their position!"

He stopped in his current train of thoughts to pay attention to two young women walking past him. He followed them, intrigued with the conversation. He made sure to keep his gaze and his eyes nonchalantly and without interest.

"But honestly, she is as beautiful as the Mother!"

"The more we will see of them, the better for Paris, I assume," said the other, gazing around. When she turned, she caught sight of Victor and her eyes widened.

"Monsieur Lerik!" She gasped, and turned around to face him. Her friend did as well and they both fell into a curtsy.

Victor paused for a moment, feeling slightly off guard.

"Ladies," he said quietly, without a bow, "may I ask the topic of your conversation?"

"Of course," said the one on the right, lifting her glove to her lips, "though, it's horrible of us, really. It's just gossip, Monsieur."

He detested gossip all the same, but this was some gossip he wanted to hear. "Could it be perhaps you were speaking of the de Chagny's?"

They looked to one another, shocked. "Yes, Monsieur, we were. They are in town today, everyone is talking about them."

That was all he needed to know. He turned around and strode away from them, leaving the two ladies speechless to his sudden departure.

* * *

The small de Chagny group had made their way inside a few of the shops. At each one, they were immediately attended to. Raoul was kind enough to stir the help away from them, but Christine was becoming quite fidgety. She would quickly move away from the leering eyes.

Cecilia was enjoying her time, however, pulling on Annaliese's arm. "I want to look, please let me look!" She asked, pointing to a table of intricate boxes.

"Here, my love," Christine said softly, taking a box and kneeling down before Annaliese and Cecilia. "See, it plays music." Christine opened the lid and a soft tune began to play. Cecilia's eyes were glued to the object.

"Mama! I want it!"

"Then we will take it," Raoul said, placing a hand on Christine's shoulder. Christine stood and handed the box to Raoul who went to the store owner to pay for it. Christine sighed and looked to Annaliese.

"How are you, Christine," Annaliese asked. Though she had a vague idea of what Christine's answer would be.

"I hate the way they look at us," she murmured, "everyone. No one will forget the past, Annaliese."

Annaliese touched Christine's shoulder, her eyes expressing heartfelt sympathy for her friend. "I know, but we must try. If there is anything I can do to help?"

Christine smiled. "You're already doing enough, and I thank you." Christine reached out and touched her daughter's cheek, smiling. "And, Cecilia enjoying herself is a delight to see. I have never seen her so happy!"

"She has loved every shop we have gone into," Annaliese said, shaking her little mistress' hand with a playful grin. "But I think she will really like the music box her Papa has purchased."

Raoul returned with the parcel in his hand. "Well, shall we move on to another store?"

"Indeed," Christine said, following him out. Annaliese and Cecilia followed. Thankfully the carriage was outside and Raoul placed the parcel inside.

"If it is all right, Christine," Annaliese said, "since the market district is right here. I have promised the cook that I would pick up some spices. May I be excused," Annaliese asked, looking to Raoul. "I will be very quick!"

"Of course, Annaliese," he said, nodding. "We will be within this street. Just look for the carriage."

Annaliese nodded. "Thank you, I will return shortly. Cecilia, would you like to go with Mama and Papa?"

"I want to go with you," Cecilia said, looking to Annaliese. "Please?"

Raoul laughed. "Of course she may go with you. I want her to see all of Paris! But don't get lost," he said, a tad sternly. Turning to Christine, he gestured down the walk, and she followed him.

"Come, Cecilia," Annaliese said, pulling the young girl's hand, "We must be quick."

* * *

The market section of the walk was quite busy, not only the stores but the small carts that lined the street as well. Cecilia kept looking at all the food and the younger girls playing running past with apples in their hands.

The shop that Annaliese went to was coming up, and as she approached it, she was cut off by a man. The same man she had seen across the street earlier.

"Bonjour mademoiselle," he said, bowing to her.

"Bonjour…" she said, brushing past him, hurrying to the small shop.

"You work for the de Chagny's, non?" He asked, keeping with her stride.

She ignored the question. He persisted. "I am wondering if I may talk to you, it would be nice to know who you are, how you started working for them…"

"I am afraid I cannot answer your questions, Monsieur," she said, briskly, entering the shop and pulling Cecilia along. Cecilia kept gazing back at the man, who stood outside watching them through the glass. He pulled out the small little pad of paper and started scribbling something down.

As Annaliese began to pick out the spices, also telling Cecilia which ones she was picking up, she kept darting her eyes over to the window. The man was still there, staring at them. The pad of paper still in his hand! She concluded he was a reporter, and wanting questions about the de Changy's. And Annaliese now officially knew better than to talk to one.

They had finished paying, and Annaliese was reluctant to walk outside. Cecilia looked up to her, wondering what was wrong.

"Annaliese?" Cecilia asked, pulling on her skirt.

She sighed, and looked down the Cecilia. "Cecilia, when we walk outside please stay very, very close to me… Do not talk to no one except me, understand?"

Cecilia nodded firmly, clutching Annaliese's skirt. They both exited the shop. Annaliese kept her eyes out in front of her, and not at the man whom had started to follow them. He approached them once more.

"Madame," he said, touching her shoulder, firmly. "I am writing an article and I would like to speak to you."

Since he had touched her, she turned around. "Monsieur," she said, eyeing his hand on her shoulder, "let go of me."

He did, but slowly. "I will keep following you until I get this story. Please, answer my questions!" He flipped to a previous page in his book. Annaliese turned around and strode off.

"Here, girl, do you like sweets?" She heard him say and she quickly turned to see Cecilia standing next to him as he dug into his pocket for something. Cecilia reached her hands up towards him, waiting for the candy he was going to give her.

"Cecilia!" Annaliese said, striding back to her. But before she could intercept the exchange of the sweet, someone else did. He had grabbed gentleman's hand, twisting it behind his back and pulling him against one of the buildings.

The man was well dressed, well kept, and not someone who would be in the market district. He was older, older than Christine and Raoul. His expression was slightly difficult to determine, since it was a handsome face, but something in his eyes told her that he was quite furious.

Annaliese approached them, bending down and grasping Cecilia's hand. Cecilia was crying now, burying her head into Annaliese's skirt.

"It's all right," Annaliese cooed, looking back to the man and the reporter.

"Louis, the fact that I saw you try to harass this woman for a story, what I could _do_ to you," the man whispered. Annaliese was taken aback on how serious he was. His voice was laced with malice and humor.

"Monsieur Lerik," he said, trying to shake himself free, but surprised when he could not from his tight hold. "You understand… business is business…"

"It's disgusting," he returned, "and I despise it. You will leave and you will forget this ever happened. If you try to speak to her again, I will make sure that you will not step foot in the Palais. This is a warning, and you will not get another." He released Louis, and let him go. "Understanding and knowing are two different things, Monsieur Kavire. Learn them properly."

Monsieur Kavire stared at Monsieur Lerik and then at Analiesse and Cecilia. Then he looked back to Monsieur Lerik, his eyes narrowing. Then he left, disappearing down the street. Monsieur Lerik watched him, his gaze grim.

"Monsieur," Annaliese said after some silence, "thank you."

He finally looked to her, and then to Cecilia who had peeked out behind Annaliese's skirt. "It is quite all right," he said, his eyes roaming up to her slowly. "I know who he was, and I am afraid that he would have never left your side until he received what he wanted."

"Do not worry," Annaliese said, "he would have not gotten anything from me. I was worried about Cecilia," Annaliese said.

"Of course," he said, opening his gloved hand and removing a sweet and the pad of paper. Annaliese smiled. The man was harmless, but the incriminating information that he had jotted down was safe in his hand.

"But, he will soon realize that it's gone. So, it would be best to leave this area," he said, gesturing back the way the main street was. Some people around them had witnessed what went on, and stared at them with odd fascination. In time they returned to their work, treating it as something normal.

Annaliese brushed Cecilia's hair and turned her around, making their way back to Raoul and Christine. She turned her head to take one last look at the mysterious stranger, but he was already gone. It was if he was never there at all.

* * *

Like the Phantom he once was, he had left them bewildered. He watched them hurry back to the main district street, and back to where Christine and Raoul were. He proceeded to follow them, all the while looking at the small pad of paper in his hand.

And so, he finally took a glimpse to what the ladies were speaking of. Cecilia de Chagny. Christine's daughter! She was beautiful for being a child of five. She could almost be the spitting image of Christine of when he remembered her at the Garnier.

Louis Kavire deserved to be frightened. He looked down to the pad of paper in his hand. He was quite sure that there was nothing Louis could do to try to seek revenge. He flipped through the pages of Kavire's book, disgusted but intrigued what lies one could cook up for the want of money.

_Raoul De'Chagny and his wife Christine De'Chagny spent a lovely Paris afternoon shopping and entertaining their daughter and 'maid'. The child is a beautiful girl, who resembles the mother. One only wonders if this trip will be the first of many, or the young girl will be forced into seclusion._

_The girl's name is Cecilia, from what I gathered. She is five years old. The maid's name is Annaliese. She is estimated to be 23. They have broken away from the de Chagny's to shop in the market…_

He flipped earlier in the book, coming across the early draft of the article he had jotted down about Christine and Raoul's 'appearance' that night at the Palais:

_Christine Daae was not born into fame, she fell into it. Many have digested that she had slept with the Patron of the Opera Garnier. She still continues to believe that she was the young little chorus girl who warbled her way through such operas as 'Faust', 'Chalemau's Hannibal', and 'Il Muto'. Still, she is beautiful as ever …_

He slammed the book shut, and placed it within his pocket. He would dispose of the book when he returned to the privacy of his flat. For now, he had other means. Exiting the market district he turned left, following the way the maid had taken. And there, he saw the carriage and Christine scooping Cecilia into her arms.

He was stunned on how innocent but beautiful the simple movement was. Christine, a mother, and her daughter… the most beautiful child he had ever seen.

_I could have been the father…I could have given her a child…_ He thought to himself. _Only, if she had loved me… and if I had crafted the mask earlier…_

But it was too late; she was already content and happy with her Patron. He watched Christine pushing the strands of hair from her child's face, touching her nose to her daughter's. They laughed together and Raoul had come up beside them and took Cecilia from Christine's arms.

He lost interest, and looked to the maid, whose eyes were wandering around the city. Perhaps searching for him so that she could tell them of what happened.

But, would she tell them of what happened? It was a puzzling thought. And did she remember his name. Louis had mentioned it once, but if she had caught it, the mention of him to them would be puzzling. And would it be a coincidence? Or, would they accept him as someone who was passing through.

He watched them make their way down the street, Cecilia still held by Raoul and Christine and the young maid, Annaliese in conversation. He wondered if the young girl was telling Christine now.

* * *

Monsieur Kavire had left the scene, startled but angry. He had reached into his pocket for the pad of paper, but he found it to be missing. And then it came to him.

_I had it in my hand, and Monsieur Lerik took it!_

He whirled around on his heel, looking for Monsieur Lerik. But he was gone, as well as the maid and the little de Chagny girl.

He swore loudly, stuffing his hands into his pockets. It had all his notes, everything that he procured in the last few weeks. The Le Epilogue would have died over the information that was in there, and he had only presented them of what happened the night at the Palais!

_And now that ass Lerik has it,_ Monsieur Kavire thought. Would he get rid of the information? Or, would he keep it and return it? He doubted he would return it. If anything, he would try to get money from it himself. The rich were always like that, looking to make their way in the world any way possible.

Everyone had to make a living, and Kavire did damn well at it for a while.

"A pity that it didn't work out for you…"

He turned to see two gentlemen leaning against the wall, one with a cigar staring at him directly while the other was watching the street. Kavire strode off the street towards the alley they were standing in.

"Monsieur," he breathed, "were you spying on me?"

"Spying is a very interesting word," the man said taking his cigar out of his mouth, "but I would call it… looking to recruit a partner."

Monsieur Kavire scoffed, running a hand through his hair.

"You're Louis Kavire, the reporter of the Le Epilogue are you not?" He asked. "My name is Remy Ames. I work for someone who is looking for answers, and I believe that you have them."

"Depends," he said, shooting a wry smile. "Depends on what you want."

"Information," the other piped up, making Monsieur Ames slide his eyes to his friend. "Information on the De'Chagny's, everything…"

"Information," Kavire repeated. "It will cost you."

"My employer will give you what you need. All you need to do is continue what you are doing – reporting. You will be paid, a reasonable amount for what you know currently … and, what you know about the events at the Garnier."

Monsieur Kavire paused. "…And, who is your employer?"

"A name you won't recognize, Monsieur," he said, bored, and tapping his cigar of the ashes. "But, he has money, and he will be greatly appreciated with the information that you can give him. Think about it, Monsieur. We know who you are, and we are sure that this money could interest you."

They brushed past Louis, who was quickly thinking it over. Money was indeed something he wanted. And the men seemed to be well full of it. "Sure," he said, "I'll give you the information."

Monsieur Ames paused, turned and smiled. "Excellent Monsieur, already you have saved us a great deal of problems."

* * *

Though Annaliese had a secret, Raoul had one as well.

He did not want to alarm Annaliese, Christine, or Cecilia; he knew they were being followed by someone of the press. He had seen the man across the street and recognized him from the night of the performance of Victor Lerik.

But shortly after Cecilia and Annaliese had returned from their time in the market, he was nowhere to be seen. Could it be that he only observed them from afar to concoct illusive tales? And then disappeared when he was done? Perhaps…

Even so, the rest of their walk was quiet, and tense. Christine was trying the best as she could to keep calm and try not to think about the looks and stares she was being given. But, how could she when half of Paris knew of the Opera Ghost legend?

He felt her squeeze his hand and looking down, he saw her kind face. Smiling, he brushed a strand of her hair from her face.

"How are you doing, dearest?"

"I'm trying," she replied, pressing her lips together in thought.

"…Yet, you're always thinking," he said, chuckling. "Let me think once in a while. Leave your daydreaming to me. For once, I would love to take all your fears away. Remember, you asked me to do such a thing, and I wish to uphold that promise."

She smiled. "How well you remember, Raoul."

Before he could reply, he heard someone call his name.

"Ah! Monsieur De'Chagny!"

They turned to see a letter carrier approach them. He was a young boy, flushed from running. In his hand was a crisp letter bearing Christine's name.

"I was going to deliver this to your house, Monsieur," he breathed, "but you're here. Thank goodness that I spotted you."

"Well, thank you," Raoul replied, taking the letter from his hands. He looked down at the name, noticing Christine's title and passed it to her. "Do you know who this is from?"

"It comes from the Palais, Monsieur," he replied. Looking to Christine his eyes widened. "And you're Christine Daae! My mama told me all about you. She saw you once!"

"Did she?" Christine replied, running her fingers along the corners of the letter.

"Yes," he replied, "she was in love with your voice! She said it was like an angel."

Her fingers stopped glossing over edges of the letter and said nothing. Raoul took this as a sign, so he dug for a franc. Presenting it to the boy, the boy then hurried away. Raoul turned to Christine, looking down to the letter.

"The Palais?" Annaliese questioned, appearing beside them, back from her time in the market.

"I think it'd be best if we read this on the drive home," Raoul said, guiding Christine to the carriage. She followed him, slowly undoing the seal. Annaliese and Cecilia followed. While Raoul helped the young girl into the carriage, Annaliese took another look around.

"Come Annaliese," Raoul chided, "or we might accidentally leave you here."

* * *

_Madame De'Chagny,_

_It is with deepest pride that I had the honor of catering to your evening. I am the owner of the Palais Garnier. And I have met your husband but I have not met you! _

_I am told you had quite the voice, Madame. And on behalf of my theatre, and my honored pianist, I was wondering if you would not mind a gala night. Victor Lerik has agreed with me that it would be a splendid idea._

_If this brings up any hesitancy, please feel free to come to the Palais or write and we may arrange a meeting. I look forward to meeting you._

_Yours truly,_

Raoul closed the letter, folding it and sliding back into the envelope from which it came. His eyes went to Christine who sat in silence. Her fingers were twisting into the fabric of her robe, and her nails were preoccupied with destroying the embroidery.

"You must give them your response," Raoul said softly, placing the letter down on the side table in the parlor. He slowly sat down next to his wife, waiting for an answer from her.

"I refuse to," she murmured, "I am no longer a willing participant to the theatre, or to the arts."

Raoul took her hand, stroking her long fingers soothingly. "And, you must tell them that. I cannot be the judge of this. I wish for you to remain safe Christine, as I have always wished."

"Then, I shall write to them," she said, standing up and striding to the desk at the far end of the room. "I shall write to the immediately."

Raoul stood and moved over to his wife, taking her hand as it searched for a pen. Turning her around, her embraced her tightly, his lips going to her temple. "Christine," he murmured, "not now, tomorrow. Right now, I want you to rest."

Christine sighed, closing her eyes. "Thank you, my love. Indeed, I shall rest. But tomorrow, tomorrow I shall see to it that the letter will be sent." Her eyes wandered to the opened letter resting on the table. "Tomorrow."


	4. Chapter 4

**Author's Note:** I have not deserted this story! Hope you all are excited to figure out who these characters are!

* * *

_She had to have replied by now, _he thought, his tapping absentmindedly over the keys of the piano backstage of the Theatre du Palais.

It had been two days since the Mr. Mossay had written the letter. And already, his old persona was returning to him. To those who knew Victor, this was quite a shock. His clipped tone and erratic behavior was a surprise. He spent all of yesterday locked away in his dressing room, and only ventured out once to demand stored wine and a new pen.

He had to remind himself he was no longer at the Opera Garnier. He was no longer a specter that terrorized the weak-minded.

Tonight was another act for the upper class. Another performance where he would perform, and then become cornered by people who boasted they understood art. As if they understood! He scowled at the thought of the pompous ladies hanging off his every word just to recite to their friends' things they would never understand.

His fingers waltzed down the notes to the lower keys. His eyes glanced up to look at _Le Eploque _and focus on the article. _French Pianist Attracts the Eye of Famous Garnier Couple_. He read the article, all the while fuming at the mention of Christine and de Chagny. There was quite a bit about him, perhaps not directly, but by the title of _Opera Ghost_.

The Garnier would still be the finest Opera House and the one which serviced him well. But he had already found a new life here. While staying in the depths of the Garnier, he learned every secret passage that the Theatre du Chalet had. Not nearly as many trap doors or secret passages, it was a perfect theatre for keeping a mandatory profile of a pianist – not a singer.

"_Ah, Victor, you're still here!"_

He quietly shut the lid of the piano and turned in a fluid motion. Mr. Mossay strode past a stagehand carrying a ladder to fix one of the flies. In his hand was a letter.

"I am," he said, standing perfectly still, waiting for the news.

"I have received a letter from Lady de Chagny regarding what we spoke about," he said, folding and refolding the letter.

"I take it the news was not promising?" He asked innocently. _If Christine was smart, she would have denied the fool any chance at making money off her name._

"Indeed," he growled, "she has refused. She sends her_ regards and her wishes for privacy on behalf of her family_." He recited the words sarcastically.

"Pity," he remarked, no longer interested.

"Is it? You wanted such an outcome, Victor, just as much as I did…" he said, crossing his arms over his large chest.

"I respect Lady De'Chagny," he said simply, holding out his hands in an open gesture.

"I take it you have had the pleasure with meeting with her?"

"Yes, she and I stumbled onto one another by chance after the performance. She is a woman who has gone through much. To have her sing after everything she has gone through … "He dared not show the slight twinge of pain he felt from saying that.

"Oh Victor," Mr. Mossay said, laughing at his remark. "Romantics and chivalry will get you nowhere."

"I do not find what I said _romantic_," he replied, his thumb rubbing against his fingertips in quick motions. "Lady de Chagny is no ordinary woman. I say it again, Monsieur, she is a woman who has _gone through much_. I recall _your_ pity towards her as well as my own."

The conversation was indeed different than the one they had a few days prior. He could not place the new drastic and upsetting attitude in Monsieur Mossay's voice. Perhaps he was not the only one hiding behind a façade.

"Very well, there is nothing more to be said about the matter," he said, moving past Mossay. "I shall see you tonight at the performance."

"Lady de Chagny will sing again, Victor, don't worry!" Mossay called from behind him, gleefully.

_Not if I can help it, _Erik thought, exiting the backstage. He strode down the hall to his dressing room. Entering it, he locked it. Heading to the desk, he retrieved a sheet of paper and pen and began to write a letter. Over the years, he had perfected his writing to resemble nothing of his original script. Forgery was something he was quite fond of, the act of duplicating a script used by someone else. He had come across a style of handwriting he was fond of, and it seemed to fit _Victor's_ personality well.

Minutes later, he was done. Resting the pen on the desk, he glanced over what he had written.

_Dear Lady de Chagny,_

_It has come into my knowledge that my Manager, Monsieur Mossay, has asked of you to perform alongside me in the future. Knowing quite well of your past as an Opera singer at the Garnier and the strange occurrences that befell upon you and your husband. It pains me to see that he has overlooked such a thing that perhaps still rests heavily on your mind._

_Your denial does not crush my spirits in the slightest. I respect your decision and back your choices with full knowledge of its effect on my Manager. I may not hear the end of it from him, but I shall urge him on your behalf that such an event shall never take place._

_Regards,_

He was pleased with what he had written. It showed no sign of implore or deep longing to have her join him onstage. It was a service to her, and a service to him. Folding the letter, he placed it into an envelope and sealed it. Placing his hand over it, he looked down at the ring on his pinky finger. It was the same ring that he had given her that night.

The ring had been kept in a drawer with things he had salvaged from his home, all having to do with Christine. He would never be able to part with it. And out of blinded lust, he kept it with him these past five years.

_It was hardly a minute since they last saw one another. But there she was, standing before him in the wedding dress with her hands clasped together. What could he say to her? What did she have to say to him? Was she staying? Was she…_

_The thoughts continued to race, until she lifted her hand and removed the ring from her finger. She slowly held it out to him. _

_It pained him that she wanted nothing more to do with him. The ring was a present. The ring was the only piece of him, besides her voice, that would remain with her. Would that not be enough? Or perhaps her Viscount would damn any bit of him to remain?_

_His left hand took the ring, their fingers brushing in slight contact. His left hand instantly clasped over hers, holding her still in shock before she could move away._

"_Christine… I…" he could not finish the words. She knew what he was going to say, it was too evident in his eyes. But he knew that she did not share the same feeling. The look in her eyes was not love, it was pity._

_Her other hand closed over his and slowly pulled her hand free. He kept holding on until her fingers slipped from his loosened grip. That was the last time he remembered touching her hand…_

He stood and grabbed his coat from the chair, slipping it on with a flourish. Pocketing the letter, he grabbed his cane and his hat.

_Erik no longer existed to Christine…_

* * *

The letter arrived that evening after dinner. Christine and Annaliese were attending to Cecilia by reading her a story before she drew in for the night. Tonight, it was the story of Cinderella. While Christine and Annaliese played the roles of the stepmother and step sister, Cecilia was Cinderella.

"And so, Cinderella was locked away in the cellar," Annaliese exclaimed, dragging Cecilia by the hand to the closet and shutting her inside. Cecilia started giggling. "The prince was to arrive any moment now, and he was going to have the other slipper."

Christine, who was standing next to the door, caught Raoul entering from the corner of her eye. She scowled playfully and marched to the door, falling into a bow. "Good day, your Highness, I speak for my daughter when I say we are honored by your presence." Christine quickly broke character to press the little girl's bed-slipper into his hand.

"Oh?" Raoul asked, tucking away the letter for the time being. Christine took notice of this, but he reassured her that it was to wait until after they had finished. He started recalling the story of Cinderella and the place they were currently at in his mind. "I have come to find the maiden whose foot fits this slipper!"

"Ah! Then you must see to my daughter," Christine said, and with a flourish gestured to Annaliese. Annaliese nodded, quickly falling into a curtsey.

"Then please," Raoul said, taking Annaliese by the hand and sitting her down on the bed. "May I ask for your foot?"

Annaliese stifled her giggles as Raoul removed her cloth slipper and tried to fit Cecilia's small one on her foot.

"I do not understand!" Annaliese said between breaths. "My foot must have grown overnight!"

"Nevertheless, the slipper does not fit!" He looked to Christine. "Do you have any other ladies in the household?"

"No!" Christine exclaimed. "Just my daughter and I, your Majesty!"

"And me, papa!" Cecilia exclaimed from inside the closet. "I'm in here!"

"Who said that?" Raoul asked playfully, looking around the room.

"Me!" Cecilia cried.

Raoul smirked and strode to the closet, opening the doors. Cecilia reached her hands up to Raoul, and he picked her up and carried her over to the bed. "Ah! Let us see if the shoe fits!"

He bent down and slid the slipper onto Cecilia's foot. When it fit, she squealed in delight. He picked Cecilia up, twirling her around.

"My princess! I have found you at last!" He said, pressing his nose to Cecilia's. She kissed his cheek.

"And, so," Annaliese said, "the Prince and Cinderella were married and they lived happily ever after."

"Yay!" Cecilia cried as Raoul placed her down. She quickly crawled into bed, closing her eyes and waiting for her kiss. Raoul bent down and kissed her tiny lips. Christine followed and kissed her forehead, then smoothed back her hair. Raoul took Christine's hand and led her over to the door.

* * *

"You have a letter, Christine," he said, reaching into his coat pocket and retrieving the item he attended to give her.

Christine slowly took the letter in her hand and read her name silently. Making their way to their bedchamber, she handed the letter back to him. "Please," she asked, "read it to me."

Raoul nodded, opening the doors and leading Christine inside. Closing them, he opened the envelope and read the letter.

"Dear Lady de Chagny," he began, "It has come into my knowledge that my Manager, Monsieur Mossay, has asked of you to perform alongside me in the future." Raoul continued on with the letter while Christine moved to the window to watch the setting sun.

"…but I shall urge him on your behalf that such an event shall never take place. Regards, Victor Lerik." Raoul finished, folding the letter. "Well, it seems Monsieur Lerik respects your wishes, Christine."

Christine said nothing. Raoul discarded the letter on the bed and moved to stand behind her, moving his arms around her waist and kissing her neck. "What's wrong, Christine?"

"There is nothing wrong, exactly. I am relieved, I am grateful, and I am… confused," Christine said, placing her hands on Raoul's.

"I find nothing that Monsieur Lerik has written confusing," he ventured, his voice low as he looked out over their property.

"And you are right; he seems to have taken my side."

"Do… do you still have your doubts?" Raoul asked quietly.

"Raoul, I will always have my doubts," she said, turning around, placing her hands on his cheeks. Raoul pulled her close, kissing her forehead.

"It's not him, Christine," he said quietly.

Christine rested her head on his shoulder, closing her eyes. "That's all I needed to hear you say. You're right, Raoul, it's not him. I'm glad it's not."

He reached up, tipping her chin and kissing her passionately. She brushed herself against him, urging herself deeper into the kiss. Raoul picked her up and carried her to the bed, more than happy to make love to the one woman whose heart belonged to him.

* * *

Louis Kavire raised his cigar to his mouth and pushed a folder across the table to the two gentlemen he had arranged to meet. The two who had stopped him on his way back from the unaccomplished interview with the de Chagny servant.

"Here you are, gentlemen," Louis said, watching the one on the right (Monsieur Ames) take the folder and open it. "Every article I have ever written regarding Christine Daae and the affair of the Opera Ghost."

"Excellent, Monsieur Kavire," Monsieur Debaunchet said, looking over Monsieur Ames' shoulder at some of the articles. "My employer thanks you for this information you have provided us."

"As I said," Louis said, removing his cigar from his mouth for a moment. "It's going to cost you."

"And as _I_ said," Monsieur Ames replied, "you will be paid."

"Are you researching this affair?" Louis asked.

Monsieur Debaunchet smiled. "Our employer has been researching this affair for quite some time. He is missing a few pieces regarding the Opera Ghost affair. But thanks to you, the research shall come to a close."

"Your employer," Louis asked, tapping his cigar out, "is he related to Christine Daae?"

"No, he is not related to Miss Daae," Monsieur Debaunchet replied with a smile.

"Can I ask who he is?" Louis implored.

"His name is Joseph Saruge," Monsieur Ames replied, looking through an article regarding the performance of Il Muto. "We cannot tell you any more than that, Monsieur. His life is shrouded in secrets; the name we provided might not even be his real name. But it is the name we have been given and the name we use."

"I see," Louis said, raising the cigar to his mouth once more.

Monsieur Ames was reading each article with great interest. "This Opera Ghost," Monsieur Ames mused, "did you ever find out how he was able to do all this?" He looked up to Louis.

"He knew the theatre like the back of his hand," Louis said, removing the cigar from his mouth. "Crazy, I know. But theatrics help in that type of setting."

Monsieur Ames nodded, flicking a page to another article. "Now, tell me, in your personal opinion… do you think this _Opera Ghost_ was in love with Lady De'Chagny?"

Louis thought about this for a moment. "Well, Monsieurs, that's a difficult question. I could never really tell if he loved her or not. There was no evidence. But, it does make an interesting story… the Viscount, the chorus girl, and the deformed freak. She was young, beautiful, and her voice was a treasure."

They nodded. Monsieur Ames closed the folder. The two of them stood, collecting their gloves and hats.

"Monsieur Kavire, we thank you, and our employer thanks you as well. If we need anything more, we trust we shall keep you informed," said Monsieur Debaunchet.

Louis stood, reaching out his hands to each of them. "And, when shall I be receiving my payment?"

"Soon," Monsieur Debaunchet replied, "very soon."

* * *

Raoul ran a finger down the side of his wife's naked body, relishing in the fact that their love making was so blissfully passionate. Christine was asleep in a gentle slumber, her head on his chest and her fingers curled around the base of his neck.

At times, he would sit alone in the darkness and ponder on how he was so fortunate to be alive. To be a father and a husband to two women who meant the world to him. He wouldn't want anything more.

Christine murmured something and dragged her hands downward towards his chest, a hand over his heart. He reached up and clasped it within his own. He inspected the wedding ring on her finger. Thoughts started to race through his head. But he dismissed them, knowing well that what he was thinking of was in the past. It was dead.

"Raoul," Christine murmured softly. He looked down at her, wondering if she was awake.

"Christine?"

She did not reply, she was dreaming. Dreaming of what? Sometimes she told him of her dreams. Not all of them were happy. He sighed, and stared up at the ceiling.

_Where are you? Why is it that you are not near, but continue to linger… like the Phantom that you are? Will Christine ever be free of you? Will we ever be free of you? _

These questions plagued Raoul until sleep took him.

* * *

He often thought of living above. And when he met Christine, he swore that he would get that chance. If not for her, but for him—proof that the damned could get a glimpse of heaven!

So, he had purchased a flat on the far side of town. The grey bricked two-story was not only a perfect size for him to wander in complete darkness but to keep to the privacy that he adored. The flat was gated property so there would be no trespassers.

Though, half of Paris knew where he lived (because of his famed status), they knew better than to try to cross the threshold of his _domain_.

Erik stood looking out the window (in the shadows) on the second story, watching the crowds disappear into the night. He was not wearing his mask. He did not wear it in the comfort of his home. Since it was only him living there, he had free reign. And why hide when the world could not see you?

The lamp lighters were making their way to the lamps. He turned from the window and made his way to his piano. Scattered on the lid of the piano were stacks and singular compositions he had created over the years. Grabbing one at random, he placed the wine glass on the top of the lid and the random composition on the music rack. Sitting down, he glanced for a moment at the title he had given it.

_L'engouement d'un stigmata_

The title made him hesitate.

This was one of shorter pieces he had created when his identity to Christine was more than just the Angel from her dreams.

He took the music off the rack and crumpled it up. He tossed it to the side of the room. The memory of how the composition came to be slowly began to fill his mind.

"_That is enough for today, Christine," he said, as Christine finished the aria Libenstod from Tristan and Isolde. "You have improved much."_

_Christine's eyes closed and she pressed her hands together in prayer. "Your praise means so much to me. Thank you," she said, opening her eyes and lowering her hands. She returned to her vanity, sitting down upon the chair. _

"_You deserve such praise, my child," he replied, leaning against the wall across from the mirror. He was well out of view. If he was to approach the mirror, she would see him. _

_At times, when he was present with her, he felt as though he was living two different lives. One of complete fantasy and one of horror: One was an Angel of great beauty and the other was a demon twisted in darkness. _

_But how he wanted her! He wanted to hold her in his arms, run his fingers through each curled strand of hair, and press his cheek against her perfect skin without her flinching in fear. He wanted to preserve her, and her voice, like the Emperor from the Chinese tale did to the Nightingale. _

"_Angel?"_

_Christine's voice brought him back to current state of things. He was a monster, still, tricking a beautiful girl into thinking he was more than what he would ever be._

"_Yes, Christine?"_

"_Could you answer a question of mine?"_

_He hesitated. But then, she was so obedient to what he demanded of her. How could he not oblige her?_

"_Of course," he replied, "I can deny you nothing."_

_She nodded. "My question, Angel, is… who are you? You are the Angel of Music, but I find myself over the months creating stories in my mind of who you were. Were you created by God?"_

_He found himself laughing at her question. Was he created by God? And who was he? Was he always an angel? Was he once a man? _

_Her eyes went to her reflection in the mirror, and he pressed himself harder against the wall. He knew she could not see him, but the reaction was instinct. _

"_You laugh, is my question foolish?" She looked down from the mirror and to her feet. "I'm sorry, please forgive me."_

"_Christine," he said sternly, "never a question you ask me is foolish. Never do I want you to be afraid to ask me anything."_

_She nodded. He continued._

"_Angels were once humans, chosen by God because of their impact on mankind. My memories fade as time goes on. And so, I have no memories of who I was once, they are all gone."_

"_Oh," she said, "I should have known."_

"_It is impossible for you to know, Christine," he said softly. "Your fantasies, my child, what were they?"_

_She blushed, biting her lip and clasping her hands together. "I … thought you were a minstrel. And that you would sing for Kings and Queens." _

"_That is a lovely thought, my child. You are kind to think such a thing of me." He replied, crossing his arms._

"_You have a beautiful voice," she whispered back._

"_Thank you, Christine," he said warmly, "as do you. In time, your voice shall be the most exquisite of any on the earth."_

"_Do you really think so, Angel?" Her eyes were wide with delight._

"_I know so," he replied. "And you shall join me in voice, to sing amongst the angels one day." He damned himself for saying that._

"_I would gladly sing with you, my Angel," she replied, closing her eyes._

He remembered those moments so well. No matter how deceitful and treacherous each one was, they were exquisite. It was astonishing that such a girl could grow into the woman that she was now.

It was time to let those memories go. It was her choice that gave him the strength to continue his life as a man of importance. He was the Angel of Music, in human form.

He placed his fingers on the keys and began to play. He closed his eyes, swaying his head in tune with each note. If he thought the melody was promising he would take a break from his playing and write it down on the parchment.

_When Christine had left her dressing room, and he was sure she was gone, he exited the mirror. He took a seat at the vanity, feeling the warmth from her body still lingering. He smoothed his fingers over the polished wood, treasuring the spot where her fingers once were. And then he looked in the mirror, the mirror which held her beautiful face. He lifted his fingers and traced the outline of his reflection. Dejected, his shoulders sunk and his fingers slipped slowly down from the mirror._


	5. Chapter 5

**Author's Note: **Sorry it has taken forever to shell out chapter five!_  
_

* * *

_Dear Madame De'Chagny,_

_ After our last correspondence, I regret the pain I must have inflicted by wanting to perform alongside Victor Lerik. I have enclosed two complementary tickets to Victor's performance. It would be my honor if you could accept them as a token of my sincerest apologies._

_Regards,_

_Monsieur Mossay_

When the mail was delivered that morning, Christine found the letter addressed to her from Monsieur Mossay. Needless to say, she was not pleased. She felt that, though he apologized, there was some part of the letter that urged for her to reconsider.

"Thank you, Marciel," Christine said after she had finished reading. She sighed and placed a hand to her forehead.

Raoul had brought Marciel from the de Chagny household. Though a servant, he was close friends with Raoul (like her with Annaliese). He was only thirty five, and with his brown hair and blue eyes he seemed younger. And yet, his mannerisms made Christine feel as though he was much older. He hardly said much, but he knew of Christine's past.

"Madame," he said, placing a hand on Christine's shoulder. "I wish to give my thoughts about the current situation."

"Did Raoul speak to you?" Christine asked, dropping her hand from her forehead. "Not that I am upset that he did, it just feels good that everyone knows. I am awful at discussing these things…"

"Yes, he did, he is worried, but let him be. _You_ have no reason to worry. You are safe here. And you have been safe here these past five years. Trust your husband, Madame."

She nodded. Marciel smiled and moved off down the hall.

"There you are," Raoul said, coming up from behind her and fitting his hands to her waist. She turned around, holding up the letter between them.

"I just received this in the mail," she said, "please, tell me what you think of this letter?"

Raoul sighed. "You know Christine, you don't have to read them anymore," he said while plucking the letter from her hand. "Oh dear, what does our friend _Mossay_ has to offer now."

She leaned her head on his shoulder while he pulled her close. Reading over the letter, she felt his chest rise. When he finished reading, his chest fell.

"Am I wrong to think that he still wants me to reconsider?"

"The man will _always_ want you to reconsider, Christine," he said, "after all, you were the treat of Paris' once…"

"Well, tell me, what should we do? Should we ignore this? Should we respond?"

"I'll have a talk with him," Raoul said, "this afternoon."

Christine looked up at him. "Are you sure, you're not frightened?"

"Of this man, Christine?" He laughed. "You forget that I once dabbled in theatre politics, too."

Christine gave him a look.

"Do not fret, Christine," he said softly. The sound of footsteps running towards them made them turn to see Cecilia and Annaliese.

"Mama! Please come and play! Please?" Cecilia asked, grabbing Christine's skirt and pulling.

"I'm sorry Christine, Raoul," Annaliese said to both of them, "she was adamant on finding Christine and having her play a game with us."

"It's quite all right, I am here," she said, taking Cecilia by the hand. "Come, let us play." Christine walked off with Cecilia. Annaliese lingered.

"Is that another letter?"

"Indeed," Raoul said, folding it. "Please keep Christine distracted today. I'll be going into town, and I don't want her to worry."

"Of course," Annaliese said, "anything."

"Thank you," Raoul said, ascending the stairs. "I'll return later this afternoon."

* * *

Often in the past few weeks since the onslaught of drama and interaction with the outside world, he would think of one thing.

_What if she said yes?_

While seated in the carriage, driving off to talk to the theatre manager, Raoul could not help but think:

_If she would have said yes with him, would she be free from all of this? What is more torturous? Living a life of solidarity and captivity, but free from gossip. Or living a life of freedom and warmth, but enduring the past?_

_I've done everything I could, I think, to make her feel safe. But would he have done better?_

The more Raoul thought about it, the more he found himself sickened by his thoughts.

The carriage arrived in front of the theatre and Raoul opened the door without hesitation. He strode up the stairs and headed into the theatre. Two workers walking by paused at the sight of him.

"Gentlemen," he said, "I am looking for someone. Where might I find Monsieur Mossay?"

"You would find him on the stage," they said, pointing ahead. "He is with Monsieur Lerik right now discussing tonight's performance."

"Excellent, thank you gentlemen," Raoul said, knowing where he was going now. The men moved on, and he walked towards the stage.

Entering in, he heard Monsieur Mossay's voice exclaim:

"_Victor, are you serious?"_

Ahead of him, Monsieur Mossay and Victor Lerik stood on the stage. Monsieur Lerik's hands were bracing the piano, a score of music out in front of him.

"I am quite serious," was Victor's response.

"What is it that you want? Is it money?" Monsieur Mossay bellowed.

"No," Victor said, shutting his book, and looking up. Raoul was caught off guard by the stare Victor was giving him. "It's not money. I think Monsieur De'Chagny has a far more important matter to discuss with you than I. One that may not regard _money _and _bribery_…"

"What does Monsieur De'Chagny have to do with this?" Monsieur Mossay snapped. But following Victor's eyes, he immediately pulled a surprised face. "Monsieur De'Chagny, I had no idea that you were here!"

"I have just arrived," Raoul said, "but forgive me; it seems that I am interrupting something."

"No! Oh of course not," Monsieur Mossay said, waving his hands. "I trust your family is well?"

"They are," Raoul said, moving closer to the stage.

"Good, good," Monsieur Mossay said. "I just sent a letter to Madame De'Chagny a few days ago."

"She received it this morning," Raoul said, reaching inside his coat and retrieving the letter. "This time, I must deliver the response personally."

"Oh?" Monsieur Mossay's smile fell slowly.

"Yes," Monsieur De'Chagny said, tapping the letter in the palm of his hand. "Would you rather discuss this in your office?"

"It is quite all right Monsieur De'Chagny," Monsieur Lerik said, collecting his score and striding away from the piano. He descended the small flight of stairs. "I am done with the conversation."

Raoul watched Mossay's face of disbelief turn into a scowl. As Victor approached Raoul, he murmured just low enough for Raoul to hear:

_"You should leave, Monsieur De'Chagny. Do not trust him."_

Victor kept walking and left M. Mossay and Raoul standing staring at one another in the empty auditorium. Raoul cleared his throat and approached M. Mossay.

"I come bearing the letter including the tickets." He held out the letter. "My wife's answer remains the same."

M. Mossay took the envelope. "Very well, Monsieur De'Chagny, I was merely trying to apologize."

"Were you, Monsieur?" Raoul asked, crossing his arms. "I am not a fool. I was once the patron of the Opera Garnier."

M. Mossay smiled. "Monsieur De'Chagny. I never turn down the request of a lady."

"Maybe," Raoul replied. "But one would also never turn down _publicity and gossip_." Raoul watched M. Mossay's smile twitch. "With the sudden news of Monsieur Lerik leaving, you might just get the gossip you were waiting for."

M. Mossay did not reply to the jab.

"Good day, Monsieur," Raoul said, bowing slightly and striding out from the theatre.

Mr. Mossay ripped the letter up into several pieces and then discarded them on the floor. He strode off to his office, leaving a few of the stage hands to come out and wonder what had just transpired in silence.

Raoul waited for Monsieur Lerik to emerge from the theatre. And when he did, he stepped out from his carriage. Victor had already noticed his approach and slowly made his way down the stairs to him, a hint of a smile tugging at his lips.

"Monsieur Lerik, may I offer you a ride back to your flat?" Raoul asked, gesturing to his carriage.

Monsieur Lerik paused, contemplating this request. Then finally, after a few moments, he nodded. They walked together to Raoul's carriage where the driver awaited for instructions.

"Monsieur Lerik will give you the directions," Raoul said to the driver.

"Number 10, Rue St. Martin," Victor said, stepping into the carriage

"I must say, Monsieur Lerik, on behalf of my wife, your letter was most appreciated." Raoul said, resting back against the seat and placing his hat and gloves beside him. The carriage began to move.

"I am glad," he said, "I would have hated to see her fall victim to such a man as Monsieur Mossay."

"If I can speak honest," Raoul offered, and Victor nodded, "I hardly read about you in the papers, Monsieur. I am surprised that you stayed so briefly with the Theatre if you detested Monsieur Mossay."

Victor chuckled. "Well, Monsieur, let me explain. I did it for sheer entertainment. "

Raoul was now confused. "What do you mean? You are a brilliant pianist, and you could almost sign with any theatre in the district and be taken. I am sure that if there was a problem with the management, you would have left as soon as possible."

"Thank you, Monsieur," Victor replied, "I am deeply humbled by your words. But, the reason I became attached to the Theatre was to provide an outlet for my music. The _drama_ that unfolded around it was a mere consolation prize. Never did I think Monsieur Mossay's life would be changed by _me_, but it was. Drastically, I might add. Now he shall have the pleasure of watching it fall, _drastically_."

"But," Victor said, seeing that Raoul's face had become one of shock, "I feel that we both have not seen the last of Monsieur Mossay. A man like him does not take rejection too kindly. Especially since his biggest draw-in has been lost to another country, and your wife, who refuses (on best judgment) to not perform."

"You are leaving the country?"

"Yes," Victor said, "I am leaving to a quieter location."

"That is a shame, but I can't blame you." Raoul ran a hand through his hair, thinking back on Christine. "I meant to move my wife away from the public gossip, and all though we live on the outskirts of Paris, it seems like Paris is closing in on us. Sometimes I wonder if …" He stopped, shaking his head.

"…if it wasn't such a good idea coming to my performance, correct?" Victor finished.

Raoul locked eyes with Victor, who stared with honest inquiry. Victor said nothing for a moment, tapping his cane on the ceiling of the carriage. "Monsieur De'Chagny, sometimes the choices we make haunt us for the rest of our life, but we cannot let that control us. So, in the end, I was glad to see you and your wife."

The carriage stopped and Monsieur Lerik opened the door. They arrived at his flat. Raoul took a look outside the window. The house was big, tall, and rather intricate. For such a big house, it was surprising that he lived there by himself.

"Thank you, Monsieur De'Chagny," Victor said, exiting the carriage. Raoul extended a hand. Victor looked at it for a moment and then grasped it.

"Good luck, Monsieur," Raoul said warmly.

Victor nodded. "You as well," was his response before turning and striding up to the front door of his flat. Raoul watched Victor remove a key from his pocket and unlock the door, enter, and close the door behind him.

Raoul leaned back into the carriage, resting his elbow on the frame of the window and his hand pressed over his mouth, lost in thought. He remained like that through the entire drive home.

* * *

Erik watched The De'Chagny's carriage disappear from view.

Being two people was difficult, especially around Raoul De'Chagny. The last time he actually had a conversation with him (if one could call it a conversation) was five years ago, and not in the most pleasant of circumstances.

There was a time he used to envy De'Chagny. But now they were equals, each with a face in society.

Moving away from the window, he discarded his cloak, hat, and cane on the divan in the parlor. He wanted wine, and he wanted nothing more to complete the music he had been working on furiously over the past few days. And now, it was his and only his, not to be shared by the people of the Theatre du Chalet or Monsieur Mossay.

A knock sounded on the front door. The knock surprised him. He stared at the door as if he had only imagined the noise. He hardly ever had visitors. Once in a while, when he ordered a stack of parchment, it was a delivery boy. But that was rare, _very_ rare. He did not have any parchment to be expected.

_Perhaps it is De'Chagny, but what on earth could have to say to me?_

He hesitated for a moment, wondering if he could retreat farther into his flat and pretend he did not hear it. But the knock came once more. This person must have seen him arrive. It was either De'Chagny, or … someone else.

Striding to the door, he unlocked the door and opened it. Instead of De'Chagny were two men. Two men he had never seen before.

"Good evening, Monsieur Lerik," said the one on the right. The other on the left stayed silent but eyed him suspiciously.

"…Gentlemen," he said calmly, "how may I help you?"

The one on the left presented their card. The card read 'Monsieur George Debaunchet'.

"May we please come in?" Monsieur Debaunchet asked. Erik instantly found himself on guard. The last time Erik had left any sort of person into his flat was when he was establishing residence. There was too much of himself on display. And, since he had no idea who these people were, there was a bit of hesitancy on their request.

"I am sorry but my flat is in no means to receive visitors," he replied evenly.

"If we must speak to you outside," the other man said, presenting his card, "then that will suffice as well."

_Damn_. Looking down at this gentleman's card, he saw his name was 'Monsieur Remy Ames'.

"Very well," he said, looking up, "you have my attention."

Monsieur Debaunchet began. "Monsieur Lerik, we have gotten word that you were originally to play alongside Mme. De'Chagny, formally Mlle. Daae."

"I am afraid you gentleman were misinformed. There was never to be a performance between Madame De'Chagny and me, nor would I ever agree to one." He curled his fingers around the door handle, wanting something to grasp. He felt tense. He did not trust these men, not in the slightest.

This surprised Monsieur Ames. "This is shocking, coming from you Monsieur Lerik. We were told by your employer that this was planned."

"You were misinformed." His response was curt, but he did not care. "It seems these questions do not pertain to me but Madame De'Chagny in particular."

"So, Monsieur Lerik, you never had any conversation with Christine De'Chagny about an upcoming performance between the two of you?"

"No."

"Very well," Monsieur Debaunchet said, holding out his hand, "that is all we needed." Monsieur Ames looked to Monsieur Debaunchet with hesitancy.

The air was tense between him and the two gentlemen. He was sure both of them suspected him, as he in turn suspected them. "Good day, gentlemen," he said, shaking the offered hand. The two men then turned and soon were gone from his premises.

He found himself lingering in the door for a moment. Looking down at the cards that were presented, a smile tugged at his lips. Closing the door, he turned and made his way up the staircase.

* * *

"Did Monsieur Mossay lie to us?" Monsieur Ames asked as he and Monsieur Debaunchet strode away from the flat. "He seemed quite sure of himself."

Monsieur Debaunchet scoffed. "It seems that whatever happened between Monsieur Lerik and Madame De'Chagny did not come to terms. It doesn't matter now; we will just have to go with the other option."

Monsieur Ames looked to Monsieur Debaunchet. "How will that work? We were planning on the performance to give us the time we need."

Monsieur Debaunchet smiled. "There will be a performance; at least Madame De'Chagny will think there will be."


End file.
